My mother was a “tom-boy.” She never crafted. She played tennis. She coached basketball. She did magic with a spreadsheet. But she never crafted.
Her only association with art was her deep love of Native American crafts, the authentic ones. The finely beaded spears and festive-wear. The hand-crafted pottery. And the vibrant colors. My childhood home was adorned with John Neito artwork, and he is still my favorite painter.
My mother believed in handmade wooden furniture and handwoven Navajo rugs. She value craft, but she never crafted.
Art class at school and musuems on field trips were my only other exposure to the visual arts. I was to be an oberserver, not a participant.
Yet, in fifth grade, one of our teachers began a knitting club. My best friend was participating. She was crafty, unlike me. Her cursive lettering set a bar I could never reach. Her attention to detail set a pace I could never match. But I admired it all.
Since my mother was working full-time, I already had to stay at afterschool care. I had nothing better to do. I would join the knitting club.
Knitting club did not meet often, and my fine motor skills were not what they should have been. Knitting was hard for me, but I kept showing up. I never created anything, just rows and rows of the same knit stitch. But, for the first time, I felt like a craft was possible for me. Me, the self-proclaimed creative desert of a child.
Years later, when my children were toddlers, I decided that I wanted to learn to sew. I don’t recall what inspired this. Perhaps a desperation for some “me” time or too much time scrolling Etsy while feeding bottles.
I found a sewing class near my home in Houston and signed up. We sewed pillow cases and pajama pants. I was surprised that sewing involved ironing. The only time I ever ironed was in the first few months of matrimony, and I was promptly relieved of this duty. Apparently, even ironing takes skill.
But taking the sewing class made me feel so capable. Once you familiarize yourself with some basics of a craft, the possibility of progress opens up like a catalog. I didn’t know how to make anything, but I suddently felt like it was all learnable.
My husband bought me a sewing machine, and I promptly quit sewing.
