I'm very sorry to have to show you all this picture. This is about four feet of the butt-ugliest blanket known to humankind. Yes, it's really this bright. And yes, it's really crocheted. Sorry to say.

I have a strange relationship with crochet. It was my gateway drug, the craft I learned at my grandmother's feet that led me to all my other obsessions. The pattern for this hideously patriotic blanket was one of grandma's two signature patterns, and I'm the only one who knows her patterns out of her 60 or so descendents. (Yes, really that many, and no, I don't know the exact number, because after the first few dozen, who can be bothered to count?)

In her life, grandma crocheted like a machine, pumping out blanket after blanket at a rate that would make a superhightech robotics factory look lazy. Need a blanket for a queen sized bed? Give her three weeks and 6 pounds of Red Heart, and you got it. As did everyone else in our family. We all have mounds of hand-crocheted afghans, so many that we began to treat them as if they were disposable. Or easy to make. (They're not.)

When Grandma passed away, my nieces and nephews were still quite young and hadn't yet been deluged with acrylic. One of my nephews has a baby blanket from her hands, but Gran got a headache one day when he was still in diapers, and that was it. No more crocheting and, eventually, no more Gran.

I decided to make these afghans for my nieces and nephews as a way of continuing her tradition, but the truth is, I don't really like crocheting. It makes my tendonitis flare up, and anyway I'd rather knit. (Who wouldn't?) So these blankets really are a labor of love, with the accent on labor. I slog through them, dc after dc, and occasionally shove a half-made blanket into the back of the closet to give my wrist a break and to return with relief to my knitting needles.

The above afghan is over two-thirds done, but I've been ignoring it for months. It's number three of five, and the young lady destined to receive number four is frothing with impatience because her big brother already got his. (His was the first of the five. Seems like a loooooooooong time ago that I gave him his. Long enough ago that when he unfolded it, he gleamed and said, "You made mine big because when I grow up, I'm going to be big like my daddy!" Ah, the all-too-fleeting hero worship stage.)

This red, white and blue abomination is intended for my fifteen-year-old nephew who is mad for all things military. He also likes Nickelback, baseball, and the fact that he will get his learner's permit this year. He picked out the color scheme, and I'd like to deliver a finished afghan before he's old enough to realize how insanely ugly this thing is. The only way to do that is to force myself to it.

So I hereby pledge to crochet one entire ball toward this afghan for every knitted piece I finish. By knitted piece, I mean piece. Not garment. One sock, one sleeve, one hat -- these are all pieces. One piece knitted, one ball crocheted. Given that it takes at least ten balls of crapalicious Red Heart to make one of these afghans, I don't think I'm in danger of giving up crochet any time soon. Sorry to say. sigh....