I was sitting among a large group of women. We were enjoying
a shiur. As the talk drew to a close, some were still
taking notes while others were busy checking their tape
recorders to make sure that the tapes had not run out. I was
packing up my belongings, while mulling over the insights
that had just been delivered, all the while admiring the
approach of the lecturer. And then I heard it!
In her answer to a question from the audience, the speaker
was painting a word picture of a particular kind of
individual. She was trying to lightheartedly describe a woman
who is a bit less intelligent than average -- someone whose
I.Q. is perhaps ten points higher than her pulse.
How did she sum up this near-imbecile? "You know, she is the
kind of woman who knits." The audience, made up for the most
part of young ladies, howled in appreciative laughter.
However, I was both upset and saddened by the remark. If you
will pardon [appreciate] the pun, I am a dyed-in- the-wool
knitter. I cannot remember when in my adult life I have not
had at least one knitting or crocheting project in
progress.
When my husband goes to the States, I give him a shopping
list, which invariably includes either yarn, knitting
needles, stitch holders, patterns or a combination of these
things. For me, knitting is a creative outlet and a way of
providing first my children and now the grandchildren with
gifts from the heart.
I have noticed that the middle-aged "liberated" women who
disparage knitting will wax poetic when they speak of
weaving. Weaving is an Earth-Mother activity. It calls to
mind the pioneer American woman of the middle 19th century
outfitting her family in homespun cloth which she had
prepared from the shearing of the sheep, through the spinning
of the yarn, and culminating in hours spent in front of the
loom.
In their eyes, the loom is romantic. Just as the harp, rarely
found in today's living room, is seen as a romantic, almost
exotic musical instrument, the loom conjures up visions of
the days when its presence in the home was a sign of creative
productivity.
Since I could not rush up to the podium at the lecture to
register my complaints about the shabby treatment that had
been handed out to the knitters of the world, I would like to
stand up on my literary soap-box here and vindicate the fine
art of knitting.
Weaving is a process that is used to produce most of the
fabric used in sewn clothing, sheets and other household
staples such as tablecloths. An up-and-down matrix of threads
is affixed to the loom and then a shuttle is passed back and
forth horizontally to create cloth. The cloth is then cut and
sewn into the finished product.
Somewhere in history, it became apparent that the loom was
not the answer to all fabric production needs. First of all,
woven cloth has very little elasticity and that is a
shortcoming when one is making sweaters or vests that have to
go over the head, and when one is creating stockings, tights
or other items that have to be stretched to put on and
released to fit.
Also, with the exception of the little plastic frame that my
grandchildren use to produce pot holders, a loom is not
particularly portable.
Both of these failings are corrected by the fine art of
knitting. Knitted fabric is stretchy and nothing could be
more portable than a pair of needles and a ball of thread --
nothing, that is, except a crochet hook and a ball of
thread.
In addition, knitting is eonomical. To knit, one casts on a
number of stitches and following a pattern, increases and
decreases at will, to produce fabric that is exactly the size
and shape one will need to assemble the garment one is
creating. There is no cutting, and therefore, there are no
scraps of wasted material, and no mess. [And you can always
unravel and reknit sweaters to a larger size.]
In Mishlei, we learn about the weaving prowess of the
Woman of Valor. We can each conjecture about everything
Shlomo Hamelech meant, but I for one, like to think of the
Eishes Chayil as, "You know -- the kind of woman who
knits."
