|not me, not the dress, but you get the idea|
All my brothers and sisters, they told me, were proud and warm possessors of meticulously even-sided afghans. Sarah had a fine outfit she loved to wear in the house when she was three, a lilac crocheted bikini and Chris's football helmet. I made a free-design wall hanging for the wedding of friends who sent me a picture of themselves standing in front of it.
I knew my stuff.
WhenI hit my 60s, I realized that arthritic hands do not make complicated crochet patterns with any fidelity, and I sort of limited myself to scarves and bedding for dolls. Not much talent needed, but it was something that made me feel less guilty abut watching TV. And I had a couple of years when I made pretty-if-you're-not-obsessed-with-even-sides afghans for homeless shelters.
Then I got involved in too much volunteer work, started paint-overs for fingernails, read my books in the middle of the night, possibly stopped paying attention to my family and gave all my wool and hooks to the Sally Ann.
Gentility, as a goal, still seems a long way off though.