My landlady's name is Patty. She's in her seventies, can hardly walk on her own, and spend her free time knitting. She cranks out sweaters and afghans and baby garments in record time. She sits, hunched over on the couch towards the light of a tiny lamp, with Fox News blaring in the background, expertly turning Red Heart worsted weight yarn into the most amazing things.
She's inspired me to take up knitting again. We'll see how that goes. But anyway you slice it, she's become quite an inspiration for many things. She's become sort of a surrogate grandmother to me, now that I'm so far from my family and living in the mountains of New England. When the snow flies this winter, I'll be downstairs with Patty, trying to figure out where the needles go.
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