The Making of a Knitting Wendigo

I'm sitting here typing and re-typing the first lines of my first entry, as if it's some sort of great reveal to a seventh grade crush. I've got to get this right for posterity. After all, aren't all of our great great grandchildren going to be digging through piles of ones and zeros to find out what their grandmother was blogging about the year of the economic-fill in the blank with a car accident noise? Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. This is, after all, a knitting blog. If I'm lucky enough to have great great grandchildren, even they will probably stop reading at the first sign of the word "knitting". Or... maybe they'll be inspired to take up the needles. They might even have the knitting baskets of my grandmothers and great grandmothers, that I'm saving for the next generation.
When my grandmother taught me to knit, it was because she was doing to ultimate destash. She was moving from the home where she had raised four children to a retirement community. She ended up giving me everything, knitting related, that she had. She showed me once and only once, how to cast on, knit, purl and cast off. Then, in her very Midwestern way, she watched and said nothing as I stabbed and yanked my way through the first row. The lesson was done in less than an hour, but she had passed the torch. Nine years later, I could fill a silly red telephone booth with all of the fiber, yarn, needles, knitting books and other knitting related items I own. I think this blog is going to be about fighting the Wendigo. We'll see how that goes.