My eight-year-old eyes wondered how anything moving that fast could create something so pretty. I watched my grandma’s hands as they made knitting needles and yarn dance. Row by row she built a stocking cap from remnants of yarn leftover from afghans she made for friends, relatives, or county fair entries. When it was done, she showed me how to make a pom-pom for the top. She completed the hat while getting her daily dose of General Hospital. I was too young to care much about who was sleeping with whom on the daily soap opera, but I was intensely interested in my grandmother. Her day was dictated by routine. Washing the breakfast dishes was followed by watching The Galloping Gourmet. After Grandpa returned to work from his lunch break, when she fed him tomato soup and a toasted cheese sandwich, she washed dishes then watched General Hospital while knitting. Then she started dinner so it would be on the table at precisely 5:30 when Grandpa got home from work. 5:35 was unacceptabl