I think people who crochet are special and my Mom was among them. I don’t know the history of it – how it came to be that a hook and yarn in the right hands created stuff.
I do know lots of stuff can be created.
Mom wrapped my two brothers and me in crocheted blankets when we were too young to know what to do with our arms and legs. She crocheted me a hat and scarf with fancy flowers all over them when I was two years old. This get-up, in which I much resembled a potted plant so wowed the crowds, she ended up making sets for lots of my cousins. She went through a prolonged beret stage that I think she enjoyed more than the giftees who received them. Berets are essentially plates with sides and they look odd on most heads, I think.
She crocheted coasters for about five years before she died, while recovering from a stroke. By rough estimate, there now exist enough coasters they might replace currency in a large American city.
I favored her angels. They were yarn dollies, about 3 inches tall and she crocheted tiny wings of silver yarn for each one. When I was 10 years old, she took a chance to teach me how to make one, since I couldn’t, can’t, don’t crochet. She decided my angel could very well be wingless and I could compensate for this omission by stitching an expressive face on my angel.
This season, as is our norm, I hung one of Mom’s angels and my angel on our Christmas tree. Side by side, her’s is flawless and ethereal. Mine grimaces and appears either offended or mad; or both.