When she died, I inherited some of my grandmother’s older belongings, including a chest made by her brother for her wedding, her 1947 radio and, relevant to today’s story, her bag of knitting.
She was an avid knitter, and every Christmas would see us decked out with a chunky new jumper or a hat, but I’d forgotten quite how extensive her kit was. Digging it out today so that I could find a fine needle around which to roll some paper, I found a veritable hoard. It was an addict’s needle collection, although this time around the addiction was not to illicit chemicals, but a healthy and benign form of self-sufficiency.
They range from as fine as a cocktail stick to fatter than a fountain pen, and while most are crafted of a uniform grey metal there are wooden, plastic and brightly coloured specimens, which would have been the starting point for much of my childhood wardrobe.
I eventually found a needle of the size I wanted, but the best finds – without question – were the retro tobacco tins used for storing buttons, and the lovely forties-style packaging on some of the smaller needles.
Tobacco tins for button boxes, and retro package designs
The most curious instrument, though, was a small green disc punched through with holes. It looked like a tiny measure for serving up individual portions of spaghetti, but with numbers beside each hole it was obviously a gauge for identifying unmarked needles, of which there were many, or, more likely, converting between needle size numbers and actual millimetre measurements. It would certainly come in handy with this kit as the needles are fairly evenly split between those with a simple gauge number and an actual millimetre-based measurement of their diameter.
Knitting needle gauge
I’ve not put the knitting bag back where I found it. Not yet. There’s plenty of good wool in there alongside the needles. I could quite be tempted to give it a go…
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