Listening to the world news at present, one could be forgiven for choosing not to read a short article with this title!   However, let  me reassure you that this could be titled simply as “Not My Turn”. This was something I was all too  familiar with feeling, especially as a child, when asked to do some little household duty out of turn, or when I  believed a sibling should really be doing it!

Recently, a fellow crafter decided to give me some  wool for a project I am considering.  I was delighted to accept.  A day or two later when I was at home about to start knitting I noticed some wool in the bundle that I hadn’t expected nor particularly wanted.  It was a few skeins of pure wool, of high quality; an excellent gift, but one I knew I didn’t want.  I treated these like rogues or intruders.  Let me tell you why this really good wool was so unwelcome.

As small children living in the west of Ireland, our mother did a lot of knitting; in fact we didn’t think anyone could have a jumper, cardigan or a man’s waistcoat unless it was knitted at home!  So wool, knitting needles, patterns and blunt sewing needles for stitching up the garments were part and parcel of our daily lives.  We loved seeing a new garment that was just finished, and fortunately we often did!

However it wasn’t all exactly “sunshine & roses” for us the four children.  In those days, now over 70 years ago, wool was either spun at home and made into balls for knitting or bought in fairly big skeins like the rogues I received and which then had to be made into balls before being knit.  To do this one held the wool on outstretched arms while a second person wound it into a ball.  None of us particularly liked having to stand with our arms stretched out while mammy rolled the wool.  We believed we got tired and always spoke of another sibling being the one who really should be taking their turn!

So, whenever we heard the call “Arms Please! Arms Please!” we got busier than ever at our homework or disappeared out the back door  and into the garden to avoid the task  for what seemed an age and was probably only a matter of a few minutes each time.  Often the real issue  was the deep belief that it was another sibling’s turn!

While for us it was a something of a dreaded task, our mother told us when we had left home, and Dad (who also took his turn!) had died and she had to wind the wool herself she used two chairs and it worked well.  However, she always found herself wishing one of her small children was standing there with little arms held wide in front of her.  She spoke of these memories making her time knitting in later life both happy and poignant for her.

The little rogue skeins of wool brought back memories of childhood, of learning to take one’s turn and of the wonderful crafts, skills and values  of our parents who lived at a time of clothes being made at home, lasting a long time and passing down the family from one child to the next.

“The little things

The little moments

They aren’t little”

                                                                           Jon Kabat-Zinn