Knitting Vs Crocheting

First of all, I want it to be known that I am both a knitter and a crocheter. I love both crafts, and they each have their positives and negatives. There seems to be a great division between the two parties, or at least that is the perception. One craft is often held in higher status than the other, and in my opinion this tendency is completely arbitrary.

Knitting and crocheting are two very different ways of making a piece of fabric, since the execution of the individual stitches requires the use of either two needles (in the case of knitting), or one hook (in the case of crochet). This doesn't mean that one way is superior (or inferior) to the other. It simply means that one method produces results that look and feel one way, while the other produces results that have their distinctive look and feel. Are there differences? Yes, of course there are. Are there differences between a Mac and a PC? Of course. You'll find devotees of both. There are some things that one does better than the other, and vice versa. It's the same with knit and crochet. Crocheting uses approximately one-third more yarn than knitting, and that is one difference which you'd think might make yarn manufacturers very happy, but doesn't seem to. Knitting produces fabric with a very nice drape, well-suited to wearable items like sweaters and lacy shawls. Crochet, however, tends to make heavier afghans, extremely cozy and warm hats, and when done with sport weight (or lighter) yarn, can make quite beautiful sweaters and jackets that can stand their own up against the finest of hand-knits.


I endorse both crafts, as each one has its special place in the world of handwork. Some people just prefer one over the other, and that's fine. Some learned to knit from the beginning, fell in love with it, and just never ventured into crochet, for whatever reason. Others first learned to crochet and stayed put with hook in hand. That, too is fine.


I want to propose a challenge to all the knitters and crocheters of this world: Give the other one a try. If you've never produced a stitch in your life on two needles, give it a try. If you've never looped yarn through hook, give it a try. If you still feel a bit snobbish toward one particular craft, then practice the opposing one at home where no one can see you. And please, don't just pick up the other craft and try casting on or making a starting chain and then leaving it there. No. Finish a project and see how your work turns out. Knit an entire scarf. Crochet a hat to completion. Give it your best shot. If you need help, get a friend to show you, or better yet, grab an instructional video or DVD to guide you. There are tons of them available, and some of those video teachers were my best friends in my hours of desperation.


Try both crafts. Give them your best efforts. Put yourself in the other crafter's place and see for yourself what it's like to "cross over to the other side." You just might find you enjoy both ways of making things, and you might find your preferred uses for each one. They are both lots of fun, speaking from my experience, and both present unique challenges. I've learned a lot by learning both, and who knows, I might even try tatting or embroidery next! Maybe.

Early Autumn In the Air

The weather today reminds me of those early autumn days of my youth—those afternoons in late summer when you could tell fall was just around the corner. It’s cloudy and gray outside—and slightly cool, due to tropical storm Fay skirting the Gulf coast and trying to make its way back out into the Gulf of Mexico. Fall has always been my favorite season, and I’ve been lucky to have lived my entire life up till now in a place where fall presents itself every year, in full color and crispness. I feel a little sorry for people who never get to experience the joys of the changing seasons, particularly the change from warmer weather to cooler, when blessed relief comes in the form of cool air, or as I’ve often heard it called, “nature’s air conditioning."


Mississippi summers can be brutally hot and humid,and they certainly were when I was growing up, but not everyone had air conditioning back then, which made it much more uncomfortable in the hot summer months. Going back to school each fall, we endured the last sting of summer’s heat in the classroom, because our grammar school had no air conditioning, only electric fans, which, as you know, only circulate warm air around a room. I recall those first few weeks of early September when the days were still very warm. We’d be in the classroom, freshly dressed in our new school clothes, still stiff and scratchy with the newness that only such clothes can give to the poor, unfortunate boys and girls who had to wear them. Synthetic fabric was really coming into its own at the time, and you know how synthetic materials don’t breathe the way cotton does. Wash and wear, permanent press, wrinkle resistant—these were all phrases to describe the “convenience” of all this nonsense, and although I admit many of the shirts and pants I wore looked good, they sure didn’t feel good, let me tell you. I always cringed when my mother made me try on the itchy, scratchy new shirts she bought for me. Maybe my skin was a little over-sensitive, I don’t know, but not until after my new clothes had been washed at least three times did they begin to resemble anything I would call comfortable.


We were fortunate to have air conditioning at home, so at least there I could find relief in the afternoons when I would come in, change into my play clothes, and then go back outside. I could endure the heat in my play clothes, mainly because I already knew how well-worn and comfortable they were.


Summer always managed to hang on for most of September, and only when October came around did we get to experience the sheer bliss of cool, autumn breezes and crisp, blue skies. Fall meant one good thing to me: Halloween! Out of all the holidays, Halloween—only topped by Christmas—was my favorite time of the year. I’ve always had a fascination about it, all its mystery and darkness. I associate Halloween with fun, not fright, which always makes it something to look forward to every year, even as an adult. I guess most people feel that way about it, since it’s all about having fun anyway. We never played tricks on any of our neighbors. That side of Halloween was foreign to us, as we were too busy deciding which costume to wear, and which street we would trick-or-treat down first. Neighbors would answer the door and were very generous with the candy—and at times—the homemade goodies they would toss in our bags. Remember popcorn balls? I recall getting at least one or two every year. But we especially loved getting chocolate of any kind, usually in the form of candy bars or Hershey Kisses. Of course, we never liked getting fruit, and as good fortune would have it, we almost never did. Fruit was heavy and took up too much room in the goody bag, so not getting any was definitely a good thing.


We would come home from our night of candy collecting tired and worn out from all the door to door trudging. Next, we would dump out our bags of candy onto the kitchen table—in the full light, so we could carefully examine all the goodies and sort out the best from the “not so best.” We managed to eat a lot of it right then and there, and I’m sure our parents protested vehemently against our doing so, but we just ignored them and kept on eating it. On more than one Halloween night I went to bed with a tummy ache.

Old Memory Found

I mentioned in an earlier post that I had something published when I was just a young boy. That's true, and it was a letter I had written to the local newspaper inquiring about an Arts Festival that was to take place in my hometown of Jackson, Mississippi.

This festival would go on to become an annual event, and at the time of my writing to the Amusement Editor of the Jackson Daily News, the Mississippi Arts Festival was beginning its second year.

Growing up in a musical family, I was always interested in anything pertaining to the performance of music or its composition. I was most eager to know all about this festival since it was being talked about everywhere--even in school--and I knew relatively little about it. I was constantly bombarding my poor mother with question after question, some of which she could answer, many of which she could not. If I remember correctly, it was she who suggested I write a letter and include in it all I wanted to know. That's exactly what I set out to do, and we (my family) were all quite astonished to see my letter published shortly thereafter, published mind you, in my own handwriting! That was a real surprise. Maybe they liked my cursive script, but I never knew why it was printed that way. It certainly stood out on the page, and I suspect it was read by many more people than my nine-year-old mind could imagine.

Of course, copies were clipped out and saved. Then, about a month ago as I was rummaging through an old suitcase looking for scrapbook items, this old and yellowed clipping tumbled into my lap. I hadn't seen it or even given it a thought in over forty-four years. That's a long time, and had I not found it, I probably would never have even remembered writing it. At first I had to think back on when and why I wrote it, and finally I was able to recall some long-forgotten memories of that time in my life. In any case, just for the record, here's the transcription of my one and only published piece, not seen in print since April 29, 1965.



Dear Mr. Hains,
My mother has been telling me about the Mississippi Arts Festival at the Coliseum. She says our family is going and that we will have a lot of fun. I think we will because I like to go to the Coliseum to see most anything. There are some questions however that have been bugging me, and I thought maybe you could answer since you wrote all that stuff in the newspaper. If it lasts from Friday till Monday where will we sleep? There are seven of us and we don't even have a sleeping bag. Should we bring the peanut butter since I know my daddy will get tired of buying peanuts and cotton candy before the first intermission? How much will they charge to park our car for all that time?

Your friend,
Dan Thompson
4315 Oak Hill Dr.
Jackson, Miss.


P.S. They don't have bathtubs at the coliseum, do they? I have never seen any there. I know we will enjoy the Arts Festival.


Oh boy!...that was my inquiring mind, always wanting to know everything and always asking too many questions, as my mother used to say. At least this time I let her off the hook!

My First Confession

This is my very first post on my very first blog. I titled it My First Confession, though I won't be confessing too much at this point. I'm a newbie, so please give me time to grow. The world of blogging is new to me, and I hope to discover all its joys and perhaps learn some new things about life and the others who are living it, too.

I am filled with many emotions these days--confused at times, and also sure at times. Being firmly planted in midlife and looking toward the horizon, I'm squinting to see what lies over there just beyond next week, next year. Day at a time, so to speak, with some healthy anticipation at what tomorrow might hold.

I am feeling philosophical today. In fact, I feel philosophical most days. I want to write about my feelings and opinions. I think it will help to keep me balanced.

One confession I have is this: I really don't know where to start, but I don't think it's that important anyway. I've kept so many thoughts inside of me for so long now that I'm afraid they will come spilling out randomly. Better let me take a very long and deep breath before I get started....


I have always believed that I can express myself better through writing than through conversation. I've always known that deep inside, but until recently I haven't taken advantage of this method of self-expression, and I don't really know why--what's been holding me back. I am a good listener most of the time, although I can easily let you think I'm interested in what you're saying while my mind is completely off in another dimension. I'm bad about that, and I have to work on it. But generally speaking, my preference is to listen rather than to talk, so I guess that makes me a better listener. Because I have been such an ardent listener all my life, I have a lot of lost ground to cover, so if I ramble at times, please forgive me that, as I'm sure things will improve over time. But then, if I need to ramble, I will. Consider this your official advance notice.

I'll try to keep my thoughts from straying too far. Seems I am already making some confessions in spite of myself. Oh well, good for the soul, and all that....

I recently discovered the joy of writing kind of by accident. Up until just recently I have never thought much at all about writing anything. I grew up in a musical family, full of singing siblings and grownups, piano players and teachers, rehearsals, choirs and choruses. Music has been a part of me as far back as I can remember, and it's always been my friend. It's been a great comfort in my life, not so much in the performing of it, but I've found that in the listening is where I derive the greatest satisfaction. When I'm feeling especially down and out, all I have to do is dig out an old song, one that has brought comfort to me in the past, begin listening to it, and all my ugly feelings fade away. Music has the greatest power imaginable to do this. Many people don't realize it, but just pay attention to your mood the next time you're listening to a favorite tune. You can't help but feel better. So, I use music--and old movies--to soothe and calm me whenever I need it.

For a long time I tried to use my music to express who I am, but that hasn't worked. I have always been a reluctant performer. This may stem from piano recitals when I was a kid, where I was always worried I would forget a note or phrase, and wind up embarrassing myself in front of my parents and fellow students. It happened once, and the memory remains. It took a while to get over that stomach-knotting recital, and the thought of performing any kind of music in public ever since then has kept me secretly dreading any and all performances. I do find, though, that the better prepared I am, the less I am likely to experience any dread. I played piano professionally for ten years, and none of it was easy. It was often very lonely, too. Preparation helps. Practice, practice, practice.

Of course, practice and preparation applies to writing as well. As I sit here carefully composing this blog, I am constantly editing and fine tuning almost every sentence. I can't help myself. Writing anything at all is an act of creation for me. I love English. I adore hearing words beautifully spoken and correctly written. I treat language with as much care and tenderness as I would treat any Standard American tune I was arranging and playing on my piano. Language deserves as much attention to detail as we can give it. God knows it's shredded and disrespected enough in today's media. I'm tired of seeing it treated so poorly, so I'll do my best to give it the respect it deserves.

Well now, I have already preached a sermon on English. I didn't mean to, but I have strong feelings associated with it, and well, I guess you'll just have to put up with me on that.

This is enough for my first offering. I have a short essay on camping and the joys thereof almost ready to post. It should show up soon. And after that I'll tell you how I got started writing way back in 1964 at the most tender age of nine, and how that very first piece of writing made it into the local newspaper.

Thank you for reading.

Dan

Camping

Camp. Just seeing the word invokes fond memories for me. I can’t say that I liked all the camping trips I took during my childhood, but a few were quite memorable. Today’s kids—and I suspect the kids of my youth—were then, as now, preoccupied with the technology of the day. Back in the 1960’s, about the only technology we had was television and radio. Of course, we had stacks of 45’s and LP’s to play on our record players and stereos, but these weren’t nearly as portable as today’s gadgets are. Kids nowadays are wired wherever they go. I see them everywhere with ear buds attached, listening away to their favorite tunes, or chatting on cell phones. Four decades ago, if we weren’t outside playing, we were usually watching TV, listening to the radio, or playing records. When we left the house, we were on our own, disconnected from the airwaves and the vinyl grooves of our favorite singing sensations. We didn’t think much about it, and I don’t recall missing the TV or any of the other things that I was so fond of at home.

This brings me to my point: Can today’s young people cope with the major disconnect they must endure while away at camp? Recently, my niece went away from her home in the city and entered into a technology-free campground where no cell phones, I-Pods, video games, or any such devices are permitted. If caught with one, a camper could be sent home immediately—no excuses. Those folks mean business. So, my curious mind wants to know how my niece is adjusting to her “unplugged” life in the woods. You see, she is still away at camp and won’t be home for another week or so. Just knowing her though, I suspect she is getting along splendidly without these devices, mainly due to the scads of planned activities the camp staff have planned for the girls on a daily basis. Their days are carefully orchestrated from sunup to sundown so they won’t have time to get bored or restless. I would be willing to bet that once camp started, the girls quickly put out of their minds the modern, wired (and wireless) world they left behind. That’s as it should be, of course, and that’s the way the camp organizers and counselors have it planned.

The beauty of going away to camp is that it opens up a whole new world in so many ways. It takes kids out of their daily routine and all the comforts they are used to at home, and plops them firmly in the middle of a group of their peers where everybody is equal, and where no one can boast too loudly, lest they be scolded by some counselor and told to play by the rules.

I remember going away for long weekends with my father and younger brother during my summers growing up in Mississippi. We were members of the YMCA group for boys known as Y-Indian Guides, a father and son organization where we learned all kinds of fun stuff, from Native American Indian lore to how to paddle a canoe and survive in the wilderness on nuts and berries. Each summer, on pre-appointed long weekends, my father would drive my brother and me off to Camp Mondamin, beside the Strong River in Eastern Mississippi. There we would be joined by all the other boys and their fathers from our particular Indian Guide group. Fathers and sons sported exotic names like Running Bear, Little Bear, and Shooting Star (we were only seven or eight years old, you see). My brother and I were just as excited as we could be, and having our dad go with us was the absolute best part of it all. Being with a parent at that age was something to be quite proud of, and our pride and enthusiasm showed in the way we strutted around the campground acting very grown up and sure of ourselves. After all, what could possibly happen to us with daddy so close by?

We slept in tents—or teepees—as we called them, made fires without matches, learned canoeing and other outdoor activities, got to shoot “bows and arrows,” and just had an all-around fun time. And I don’t remember even thinking for a moment about TV shows, movies, or records. The most memorable part of these adventures for me was when, at dusk, we would all sit in a very large circle, legs crossed Indian-style. The boys would sit in front and fathers in back, and we would sing songs, hear scary stories, and then, just after dark, the great climactic moment came when the Chief, or leader of our tribe would invoke some sort of prayer to the “Great Spirit” and lo and behold!—out of nowhere, and seemingly out of thin air, a huge bonfire would magically roar toward the sky from the center of the circle. And I’m talking a huge fire, where moments before only a pile of wood and twigs sat. It was truly a magical experience for my brother and me, and one I’ll never forget. I have wondered to this day how they pulled that off, but now I think I prefer not knowing, so as to keep the magic alive forever in my imagination.

Yes, camping can be a wonder-filled, even awe-inspiring experience for anyone, but especially for a child. I am so fortunate to have had the opportunity at attend several in my youth, and I think any girl or boy would be equally as fortunate to have this experience today. I can’t wait to hear all the details and stories from my niece, Samantha, when she returns to the “comforts” of her home in the city. I hope she will one day find comfort in her own memories of her camping adventures, so she can share these with her children some day.