by Teresa Mastrobuono

"Faccio io. E poi, lo provi. Guarda!" [I'll do it and then you try. Watch!] Then her fingers were off to the races. Even my brain couldn't keep up. Did she do two stitches or five before inserting the needle? How did she make the little chain that links the rows at even intervals to form the lovely windowpane pattern characteristic of uncinetto? But most of all, how the hell did she see??? Row after row formed in a flash, then whoosh, she handed the work to me.

Teresa's work!

"Prova!" [Try] she said, grinning. I did, marveling at my clumsiness as Teresa side-coached. "Stringi!" [Pull!] "Troppo lento!" [Too loose.] "Troppo stretto!" [Too tight!] "Giri. Tiri. Metti in bucca." [Turn. Pull. Put in the hole.] Every three attempts, she would shoo my hands aside and pull out the stitches. Disfare. [Undo] Nooooooo!
Fare. [Do]
Giro. Tiro. Metto in bucca. [I turn. I pull. I put in the hole.]
Fare.
Disfare.
Fare.
Disfare.
Over an hour later I heaved a huge sigh. The work hadn't progressed one iota! Teresa eyed me with a mix of curiosity, incredulity, and concern. "Sei stanca? she asked. [Are you tired?] Body, no, I explained. Brain, yes.

"Allora. Fai una pausa. Lo provi alla casa tranquilamente. E poi torni domani o doppodomani. Vedro' il tuo lavoro e continuiamo. Cafe?" [Allora (my favorite Italian word, which has no literal translation, but begins just about every Italian's sentence. Something like "Okay, then..."). Take a break. Try it at home. I'll look at your work and then we'll continue. Coffee?] I accepted it gratefully. Along with biscotti and fruit.

For three days now I've been struggling to duplicate Teresa's handiwork. My hands have gone numb. My wrists ache. The slender thread is so kinked from repeatedly "disfar- ing" that the work springs all over when I try to add to it and keeps jerking out of my hands every 5 seconds. I've been near to tears several times.

"What the heck!" I think. "This is little old lady stuff! How hard can it be?" But it is. My hands do not want to stay in position, the needle gets stuck in the tiny holes or slips out just as I've gotten it through after 30 attempts, my sweaty hands are turning the pristine white thread gray, and my eyes are so squinted up they've nearly disappeared into my head. I set aside the needle, ball of thread, and tiny patch of work. This is stupid. I'm not cut out for this. How presumptuous! This is a tradition learned over decades. Teresa said she began when her 40+ year old sons were babies (oh, yeah, how do you have time to focus on this stuff with BABIES!). Clearly I am made of lesser cloth. I'm kidding myself, a wannabe Abruzzese Nonna in training. I put the work back in the bag.

My work!

Two days later, I pick it up. I saw the owner of the local stationary store sitting outside the shop door needling away. When I remarked how difficult the craft is, she smiled and shook her head. "No, no! E' facile. Ma ci vuole tempo. Piano, piano." [No- it's easy. But it takes time. Slowly, slowly] Piano, piano. Those are words I've heard repeatedly here. In response to everything from work I said I wanted to do on the house to having my family come visit, to being served continuous waves of food. Piano, piano. I'm not a piano, piano kind of gal. More like a get-it-done-Mario-Andretti-style type. This will be a good lesson for me. I resume the work. Piano, piano. Even though I forget how many stitches Teresa told me to chain each time. Piano, piano. Even though the rows' lengths are all uneven. Piano, piano. Even though my window panes are large, loose, loopy arcs compared to Teresa's tight rectangles.

Three days later, I've done enough fare e disfare to show her. She studies the piece. "Non è male", she says. [Not bad] I grin.

Then she pulls everything – EVERYTHING – out! I have to restrain a little bleat of pain. But now Teresa really gets to work.

She orders me to sit right up next to her. Watch! Count! Pass the needle! Loosen! Tighten! A row forms in a flash. Turn In! Out! 2X! Loop! Through 3 loops! Thread over index finger, work beneath! Stretch the completed part in your right hand between the middle finger and thumb. "Guarda! Guarda! Cosi'!" [Watch! Watch! Like this!] Then it's my turn. Uncross your legs, she barks. You need room! Stringi! Pull! No-no! Troppo! Too much! Ecco. There. Uno. Due. E passa. One, two, and pass through. We do and undo. I work piano, piano. After an hour, out of about 30 window panes, I have successfully completed 5. She points to each one. She smiles. "Brava!" she says. I float home.

Over the next few days I work piano piano on several rows. They're still not as neat as Teresa's, but they are becoming more similar. I take her a large piece of completed work. She nods approval. Work until this is easy, she says. Then I'll show you how to make designs. I tell her I can't wait! I'm leaving soon. I'll have 9 whole months of fare and disfare.

I stopped by Teresa's house this morning for an "arrivederci" before departing for the US. "Alla prossima", I say [Until next time] "E l'uncinetto?" she asks.

"I'm working on it piano piano", I reply. "Maybe when I return I'll be as good as you!" She laughs her girlish cackle as we hug. As we step apart, I realize both sets of eyes are glistening.