My interest in knitting and crochet as a child became more pronounced as I grew older. By the time I was in my early twenties, I left knitting behind and concentrated solely on crochet.
Before long, my yarn collection outgrew the space I had for it. I needed a dedicated place to keep it. Bags and boxes in a closet didn’t work very well because I couldn’t easily see what I had.
Plastic storage totes weren’t common in the 1970s, so Carl made a yarn box for me from tongue and groove lumber.
We had only been married a few years, so his tool collection hadn’t yet grown to the size it would become later. Working with basic tools, the woodworking skills he had learned in high school shop class, and the tongue and groove lumber, he soon got to work on it.
First, he asked me how I wanted it, and I gave him some suggestions. He drew up the plans and started building it.
Before long, it was finished. He added a coat or two of clear varnish, thoughtfully leaving the wood light in color to match the floors, cabinets and woodwork in our home.
You could compare it in size to a blanket box. At first, it held all of my yarn. But as my collection grew, I began keeping my favorite yarn in it and storing the rest in the basement.
When Dad saw it, he was impressed with the workmanship and told Carl so.
That meant something.
Dad had built and renovated houses, and he knew good work when he saw it.
It sat in our living room for years.
When my crochet design career took off, and my yarn collection exploded, we used it to store the assorted blankets that accumulated in a family of six living in the Midwest, where the winters get very cold.
It was his gift. Thoughtfully conceived and carefully made, it meant more to me than I can say.
He saw my yarn beginning to multiply, and without a word, he went to work and made me a place to keep it. That meant more to me than anything store-bought ever could.
That’s who Carl was. If someone he loved needed something, he quietly found a way to provide it. Sometimes it was a ride into town for one of the kids. Sometimes it was helping me finish supper after work. Sometimes it was a yarn box. Whatever the need, he simply showed up.
Forty years later, when we moved into our current home, we had to decide what we could reasonably bring.
My yarn collection had grown incrementally over the years, so it wouldn’t hold more than a small fraction of the yarn I had accumulated over 30 years of design work.
And, our kids all had homes of their own by this time, so I didn’t really have need of a blanket box.
Over time, the yarn box came to represent Carl himself. Every time I looked at it, I remembered the many quiet ways he took care of us.
I didn’t want to part with it, but there just wasn’t room for it.
Then, a solution presented itself that I could feel good about.
Our daughter, Liz, expressed an interest in it, so it went home with her.
Her father built it, and I know that means something to her.
Many years have passed, but the love continues.
Through My Eyes, Gently 