Crafted with love

Many of my childhood memories are associated with cold winters, rainy days and afternoons spent indoors. I close my eyes and can feel the coarse wool of the sweaters, hand-knit by mom or grandma; I can feel the cuffs of my undershirt wet and cold—we were made to wash our hands often, and just as often water crept up the sleeve and wet my white cotton camiseta. We wore layers of clothing to keep us warm. Sweaters were made to last and grow with us, and they were handed down from one sibling to the other. These knit fashions, and visions of mom’s outfits and dresses punctuate the years in my foggy memories. In the seventies it was fashionable to dress siblings with identical pieces; so mom would knit two red sweaters, one size 8 for me, one size 4 for Gabriel. This meant that I would wear a sweater for a couple of years, then mine would pass down to Gabriel—and effectively he would be wearing a red sweater for four years. No wonder I remember them so vividly!

Mom loved this tradition, it went on for years. We had matching sets of yellow mohair sweaters with brown rhomboidal patterns at the cuff and hemlines, matching marine blue vests in soft “cashmilon” with red and white patterns; matching “gym” outfits that mom proudly crafted on her Knittax machine in blue “vanlon”. These equipitos de gimnasia were definitely made to last… practically indestructible, we wore them to extinction and then they were handed down to younger cousins. I didn’t like these particular outfits because their tight elastic bands left ridges carved on my wrists.

When mom mastered the Knittax machine she could craft every thing she wanted for us on this mechanical wonder. I remember the lacy knee-high white socks she made for me to wear with a red velvet dress and black ballerina shoes—this was the “dressed-up” outfit. Another white shirt and underwear to match the lacy socks. Mom would stay up late at night to finish her projects. It was sort of an addiction for her. She had set up her workshop in the garage which functioned as a family room, and from our bedrooms we could hear the cart of the machine going rhythmically back and forth on the machine, softly purring its way across and swallowing yarn grrrr, rrrr, rrrr, rrrr…. The garment would emerge from under the cart as if by magic. Every part of the process was a ritual; mom brought home the yarn in bulk and we helped her to roll it up into neat balls. Grandma Lola teased her because her tightly rolled yarn balls looked like ostrich eggs. “You’ve laid an egg”—she would say, and they’d laugh together. 

They spent entire afternoons in this endeavor. They talked and talked, laughed, and talked some more. They consulted with each other about their projects. They took breaks to bake cookies—grandma’s bollitos—or toast tortitas to serve with mate. If there wasn’t anything else to munch, grandma would carve the dough from the inside of a baguette and fill it with butter and sugar, then split the loaf down the middle for Gabriel and I to share. Gabriel and I had our chocolate milk and made our homework to the tune of their voices.

Gabriel was mischievous, I was obedient—or so they say. Truth be told, he was much younger, and probably got bored after a half hour of sitting down quietly to draw or work on a coloring book. One day we were particularly busy. Mom was helping me with homework, we had to put book covers on all my new notebooks and create title pages for all of them, las carátulas. Mom was copying illustrations from her embroidery magazines onto my notebook—a mama duck with her three ducklings—and I would meticulously color the illustrations. Gabriel was bored. And he was probably a bit jealous too. The scissors were there, right at hand. He quietly took them, hid under the table and came up with an idea of a project for himself. But he was so quiet… so mom knew he must be up to no good. She called out to him: “Gabriel!”. We heard criss, criss, crisss… then he emerged from under the table, proudly brandishing the weapon. He saw her horrified gesture as she took her hands to her face, and didn’t even wait for her to ask “What are you doing?”…he answered “¡Nada!” The tablecloth was neatly fringed all around the table. I think what followed could nowadays be characterized as child abuse, but back then was normal discipline measures in the shape of a slap or two on his bare buttocks.

Poor Gabrielito! He regularly got disciplined and my mom would go to the bathroom and cry a few tears herself afterwards. Gabriel would scream in protest. But grandma was there to console him. Lola’s warm chest was our best refuge. She would sit us on her lap and roll us to sleep. She had D-cups and I swear cuddling there was the best that could happen to you, it was so comforting. Especially if you had just had a crying fit or a tantrum.

I remember a beautiful red sweater that mom hand-knitted for Gabriel. She finished this project on time for him to wear it for my cousin Mirna’s quinceañera party. My cousin’s birthday was in July, the coldest month of the year in Mendoza, and she celebrated it with a lunch at a restaurant in town, across from Plaza España. Gabriel was about eleven. Mom wanted him to wear the new red sweater. But he had a mind of his own, and he didn’t want to put it on, as the itchy mohair was uncomfortable. He took it off. Mom got nervous. She asked him to put it back on. He took it back off and, when mom was not looking, tore out the buttons one by one. It was a daring act of defiance. I don’t remember how this ended up—probably with my brother being punished for life or some other impossible-to-keep threat. It wasn’t pretty.

In 1973 mom was expecting. Mom and Lola set out to plan el ajuar—the layette. They kept busy. They skipped their siesta to work on their beloved projects—and as if they were fairies casting their spells, the baby booties, tiny dresses, socks, turtlenecks, scarves, gloves and hats rolled out of their hands and into a huge box they had prepared for that purpose. The box was covered in striped blue fabric and had a solid blue top with embroidered flowers. They were so proud. Tiny Miguel arrived to that loving nest with enough bibs and mantitas for an entire nursery.

Where these the best years of my life? It’s hard to say without getting in trouble with the people that came later into it. But they were definitely right up there with the best. Hot chocolate, warm hand-knit sweaters and cold winter afternoons still conjure that magic time that is all but gone. The smell of freshly pressed cotton and linen has a hint of the scent of grandma’s chest. Many years after mom and grandma passed, I treasure some old knitting magazines, and a long box of tricot needles. It’s a box covered in striped blue fabric, and there are flowers embroidered on its solid blue top.