COUNTING MY BLESSINGS (6): K1 P2

I was first exposed to knitting when I was three or four years old.  My brother, Rocky, and I were only 14 months apart, and I suspect Mom needed a bit of a break.  I remember the two of us sitting on the floor under the dining room table, waiting for Mom to knit tiny little squares out of soft white yarn and toss them under the table to us.  We played for hours with our little knitted treasures.

There is something so therapeutic about knitting needles sliding in and out of stitches making that whisk! whisk! sound, pulling strands of soft wool through my fingers.  Is it the rhythm of movement or the monotomy of counting the stitches?  I don't know, but I can knit happily for hours, and have become one of 'those' people who can be seen knitting in the waiting room at the doctor's office, or while I'm visiting with friends.  Basically, if it's not rude or dangerous, I whip out my knitting at any opportunity.  I've even turned the heel of a sock while sitting dead in the water in rush hour traffic (I did put the car in park first). 

Does this make me a knit geek?  Maybe it pushes me over the cliff into true granny-dom.  No problem.  Knit one, Purl two, Knit one, Purl two ...