Learning to Crochet

Just as promised and warned, here is a very rough draft of the story:

When my Grandma Bishop was alive my father would go to the care center every day to check on her and feed her dinner.  Often, my siblings and I would accompany him just to visit.  She was getting on in years and didn’t always remember us or know what was going on, but it was still important for us to let her know she was loved. 

At the time, my other grandparents- Grandma and Grandpa Jones- were serving as counselors for a girl’s camp run by our church.  During the summer months they would spend all their time on the mountain making sure there was enough firewood, fresh water, and whatever else the girls needed.  On occasion, my family would go up on the mountain to visit them.  I have many wonderful memories of time on the mountain with my grandma and grandpa and their friends.  One such visit sticks out in my mind more than any other; however, it is not a fond memory at all.

It was a Friday afternoon.  My brother and I were getting ready to go on the mountain with my grandparents.  My mom was also getting ready to go camping- she was taking a group of young women from our church to a different camp.  My dad came home from work and invited us all to go with him to visit Grandma Bishop before we left.  My brother and I both declined stating that “we can go see her when we come back”.  We were far too excited for this trip to be bothered with things that didn’t pertain to it.  In our young minds it didn’t make much of a difference either way, she wouldn’t remember we came anyways.  Soon thereafter, we headed up the mountain.  Justin and I excitedly pitched our tent and went about exploring.  The days went by quickly and were filled with splitting wood, riding four-wheelers, and enjoying the company of those around us. 

One morning, Grandpa Jones came to our tent and woke us up early- about six-o-clock.  All he said was “Roll up your sleeping bags and take down your tent, breakfast will be ready soon.”  My brother and I looked at each other with surprised looks.  We weren’t supposed to be going home yet, we still had a few more days.  And why are we getting up so early?  None of this made sense.  Something had to have gone wrong.  Very wrong.  We hurried and collected all our gear and headed to the camp trailer in which our grandparents slept.  Grandma Jones was in there getting some food ready for us.  When we sat down, she gave us each a slice of ham and a sliced, toasted croissant.  She offered us eggs, but I didn’t take them.  Something in her demeanor confirmed that during the night, something bad had happened.  My brother and I exchanged several worried looks during that meal. 

Just as we were finishing up, the door to the trailer swung open.  Grandpa Jones, who had mysteriously disappeared after waking us up, stepped inside.  He had tears streaming down his face as he told us what was going on. 

“Grandma Bishop passed away last night.  Get your stuff loaded up, we’re taking you home.”

I have always remembered the way he said it.  Those first words to come out of his mouth- “Grandma Bishop passed away last night”- have haunted me for years.  This was the first time I had ever seen him cry.  He said it like it was his grandmother. 

Solemnly, we packed the truck and started the journey back.  It was a few hours from the camp to home, but this trip seemed like forever.  As we were winding our way through the Utah canyons, my mind wandered.  “Ultimately, this is a good thing,” I comforted myself, “she was old and it was to the point that life on the other side of the veil will surely be a vast improvement.”  But I still couldn’t help that feeling of sorrow, of loss.  I needed something to help me cope.  My grandma was sitting in the front seat crocheting.  I was mesmerized by the movements of the hook.  My mind still raced, but at least this provided me with some distraction. 

When we got to the house, the entire Bishop side of the family had already gathered, minus my aunt from the east coast.  There was a lot of crying, a lot of sorrow.  We cleaned ourselves up and joined the family.  Grandma and Grandpa Jones left to allow our family its personal grieving time and the process began.  Phone calls, viewings, the funeral, through it all I had one nagging thought in the back of my mind.  It was as if Grandma were asking me: “Why didn’t you come to visit me?  Did you not love me?”

After it was all over and the family had returned to their respective homes, life went on as normal.  It is still odd sometimes, to drive down Main Street and not make the turn to the care center.  It is even odder to drive down to where the care center used to be and find a home for troubled youth.  As much as I tried to move on, those same thoughts kept creeping into my mind.  The vivid memory of sitting on the stairs and telling my dad, “No, we’ll go see her when we come back.”  That was the last chance I ever had to see her in this life and I refused to go. 

One night my family was watching a movie, and the same thoughts were going through my head.  I could almost see Grandma Jones crocheting; almost hear Grandpa Jones give us the news.  I found a ball of yarn and a crocheting needle and began to replicate what I had seen.  Before long, I had a row, and then another.  My mom was shocked to see this happening and asked me where I learned how to do that.  I explained about the trip home, that I had watched Grandma and figured out how to do it.

 Every now and then for the next few years I would pull my little blanket out and crochet a few rows.  Though it has never been finished, that little lap blanket means a lot to me.  Every stitch is a reminder to always live life to the fullest and make time for what is important.  You never know what life will bring your way.  Had Justin and I known that we would never again have the opportunity to visit Grandma Bishop, I’m sure we would have gone.  In fact, we probably wouldn’t have gone camping at all. 

And that is how I learned to crochet.