In a box somewhere there’s a picture of me in a dark blue overall dress with white piping and a white tee under it. I’m wearing white tights and no shoes and I haven’t any hair because I’m only a baby.

In this picture I’m sitting on a blanket my Auntie Ellie (aka Sister Eleanor) made for me before our relocation to Alaska when I was six months old. That blanket, my hospital bracelet and a pacifier with a lamb head on it that’s corroded (no doubt from being dipped in Jim Beam) are the few items I have that lend any clues to my early years. For the rest I rely on my older sister and my mothers’ sister Moie.

When your folks pass away before you’re old enough to care about your heritage or ask about your history, homework becomes a part of your lifestyle.

My friend Joanne had a baby a few weeks ago and I’m making wee Nico a blanket all the while admiring my own baby blanket that’s still on hand though well worn with yarn nearly fused together after 34 years. I love that I can see where Ellie changed skeins because the ends have come untucked. I love that I can now appreciate the effort she put into that cotton square of my youth by looking at the various stitches and the yarn color changes.

And I have to wonder about nature versus nurture and why I picked up knitting and love it so much. Is it in my DNA? Is cabling for a fisherman’s sweater right there next to the tag that tells my eyes to be green/grey/blue depending on my mood/clothes/the weather? Does the same nature v nature explain why I have an inexplicable contentedness when lifting heavy objects and doing manual labor despite the fact that I’m an office jockey? Or is it possible that just doing something that varies from the norm tricks me in to thinking it feels right and that my old boss Jack was right in saying I’m a restless soul?

I might not have answers, but I have my blanket.