Last night my friend Abbi came over and taught me and another friend, Elissa, how to crochet. (Kinda funny when I thought about what I was doing last Monday night. Punk rock show... crocheting. We'll just say I'm well-rounded. :)) Granted, she has only taught us the "single-stich" of crocheting so far - there's still double and triple to learn - but it was SO easy! A few step-by-step instructions and within minutes I was off and running on my very own, HOMEMADE, pink scarf. I couldn't help thinking what a truly lost art this is becoming. Abbi's mother and grandmother taught her how to do it--as well they should have. How many mother's are teaching their daughters to crochet or knit these days? I am almost positive my mother knows how to at least crochet, but here I am at 26 years old and I didn't have a clue. (In my mother's defense, I am sure she tried to get me to learn at one point-or at least offered-but I was too busy watching Saved By The Bell. Hey, who didn't love Zak Morris' brooding good looks and Screech's crazy antics at one point in their lives?) Back to my real question - where's our sense of tradition? Passing our skills, stories and values onto the next generation is the only thing that's going to keep our history - our memories - truly alive. Thus I am determined to pass such skills onto my children (I'm gonna have boys, I KNOW I'm gonna have all boys...), along with my stories, my passions and my values. If you haven't seen the movie Big Fish yet, I highly recommend it. It will make you think long and hard about your own family, its traditions, and how much you really know about your living (and deceased) elders. I realized on the drive home from the theater that I don't even know the story behind how my grandparents met. It's easy to jump to blame others in such cases, but my conscience quickly caught up with me - I never asked. You can be sure what my questions are going to be at our next family gathering.