ROPE: CROCHETING GRANNIE
ROPE: CROCHETING GRANNIE
BY CAROLYN STICKLEY
Sleeping in, smelling the fresh air all around me, swimming, playing golf, and soft, green grass under my feet; this was my every day, until I made the wrong choice. Now, control of my body, my time, my health, my diet, my future, and my rights have all been stolen from me.
Like hatred, borders and barbed wires are precisely exaggerated. The watchtower appears a tall, frozen rectangle in my new outside view. Initially, this prison was stingingly cold. I was surprised by my waking (not that I had slept much) — often surprised that I was alive at all. Locked in my cell, I still feel a tethered force, a handcuff made of thick air. Always handcuffed, some metal, some invisible to the eye.
My grandmother taught me to crochet when I was a child. She made beautiful afghans that felt like a hug when we were apart. They all were different in some way. The Amish put a mistake in the corner of a quilt to show it is handmade. Grandma did that with crocheted blankets, but we didn’t talk about crochet or even personal things. I’ve taught my granddaughters to crochet and we shared the thoughts and stories of afghans — a different kind of rapport.
Long ago someone made loops and knots to create original patterns. The mistakes I’ve made in crochet projects serve as a metaphor for my life. I know I could tear out my mistake, undo it, and follow the pattern. But I would rather make my own. A life mistake is something we acknowledge, learn from, and try to make amends for or accept. They are places for growth. Sleeping with blankets before I send them to great-granddaughters makes me feel connected, even though we have never touched.
The power-tripping guards can shut the cell door in my face. But they cannot take away the creativity I pour into crocheted blankets and pattern designs. Made with bulky velvet yarn, my bunk blanket is soft and plush to the touch. I pull it up over my face like I’m in another life — soft and fluffy — not my incarcerated life. | CS