I plan to finally master the art of making scrubbies. My desire stems from an early fascination with those fine, slick, steady movements that my great-grandmother Fannie Ham made when she crocheted scrubbies. You've seen these scrubbies before. They sit by your kitchen faucet, possibly in a ceramic frog mouth. When you get an extra stubborn pot or pan, you use the "scrubbie" to scrub those dishes exactly as the gadget's name implies.
Grandma made a business out of them. Every year at the harvest festival she crammed a box full of them, displaying them with a sign that said "Scrubbies: 50 c," and they were sold out by the end of the day, of course.
But it took years to learn, to perfect them. I get them for Christmas and friends ask where I bought them. I explain they are homemade and that Grandma's hands only are capable of creating them. It's not a pride thing, but it definitely is.
And this year we finally heard the inevitable; Grandma's hands could handle them no longer. "I've got that Carpal syndrome so bad now. My eyes just can't take it." So here we sit afraid that Grandma Ham's ever endless supply will end unless we can figure it out for ourselves. So Grandma Stremler is going to learn first. Someday, whenI've had more practice, I'll learn it too.
Right now I'm thinking of the next seventy years. I'll be her age. Hopefully, HOPEFULLY, the great supply of scrubbies will come.
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