You’ll Grow into It
written by: Eamon O’Leary
The sign in Carrigaline library read, “Knitting Group, Every Tuesday 2-4 pm.” How lovely, I thought, remembering back to the days Mother knitted.
As good as The Three Musketeers or Zorro with their swords, Ma was a dab hand with the needles. Many the time I got prodded with the tip of a number 7 or 8.
“Will you take your head out of them comics and do your homework?”
After lugging home, from Roches Stores, a loosely coiled skein of Bainin wool, the colour of oatmeal or thereabouts, she’d have me stand, arms outstretched, and proceed to unwind the figure of eight into balls the size of turnips, with a small one for the cat to play with.
I can’t remember her ever using a pattern, but distinctly recall every Aran sweater being too big.
“Yerra, whisht. You’ll grow into it in a few weeks.”
And I did.
The unscoured wool, enriched with lanolin and other natural oils, ensured the finished product was waterproof and weighed about a ton. I’d no need for an overcoat or the like and wore the geansai, Winter and Summer, kicking footballs, climbing trees, searching, finding adventure, and sometimes mischief.
Ma eventually had to give in when jumpers went the colour of the ashes in the grate.
Time for their first wash in the kitchen sink.
Mother lost all means in her creations when they emerged, as white as flour, smelling of washing powder.
“They’ll never be the same again,” she’d tell me. “All nature’s beauty gone down the drain.”
Only once, did she attempt to knit anything else. My first pair of swimming togs. Grey, hairy, and itchy with a tiny duck sewn into one leg.
“They’ll do you grand. I’ve put in two bands of strong elastic just to be sure.”
And off I went with my friends for my first trip to the Eglington Street baths, a sixpence in my fist, a white towel, and togs under my arm.
I stood shivering by the side of the pool, biting my lip, turning into a giant goose pimple.
And then, I was in. No, I didn’t jump. I was pushed by my best friend.
Down I went and, after swallowing gallons of chlorine-laced water, was hauled ashore by the lifeguard.
The elastic worked. The wool didn’t. I watched as the sodden mess sagged, the duck almost down by my ankles, and I wished Ma had stuck to the Aran sweaters.
- You’ll Grow into It - November 4, 2025
- Hope - June 22, 2025
- Interview Q&A II With Eamon O’Leary - April 17, 2025
