First crochet lesson
One wintery afternoon, with the kitchen stove fired, my grandmother Nelida warmed the water for mate. Something boiled in a pot as I drew on the steamy windows.
I was six years when I asked her to teach me to knit. She looked me over her glasses and holding her index finger up said: "Marianita, do you know patience? Today you will not learn. Don't be anxious."
We walked together to her room and opening the wardrobe door with a key, she took a big crochet needle. Then she searched for a bag full of puchos of thread: they shouldn't be very thin, too bright nor too dark, or have many threads. She chose a light blued one and little bun of wool. "See why you have to keep everything? You never know when you might need it" said my grandmother.
We returned to the kitchen, where the window had clouded once again. She invited me a sweet warm mate.
My grandmother didn't give me the needle nor the sky-colored thread. She gave me the messed-up bun and said: "You must start by combing up the wool. The first step of knitting is being able to untie a tangle. If you can do this, you have the patience to start learning."
I really don't know how much it took me. It was a little mess, but a big challenge for my six years.
Over time, I understood my grandmother's first lesson: some things happen before, but are explained afterwards. Between this and that, I learned how to knit.