Saturday Sky
What the heck is that?

The Backpack

  It is all foggy, as if it was all a dream, but I know for a surety that it was real, that it did happen. All I can remember is getting into the bus. I was sitting next to one of my sisters, we were coming back from school. I must have been around 6 years old. I remember laughing and being so happy. I recall my Mom sitting with us. The bus was crowded, but the three of us were sitting together in a 2 passenger seat. I remember that I was wearing a green plaid uniform with a pristine white shirt. The skirt had pleats that if I twirled around, my skirt would go flying up and my long skinny legs will show. The fluffy white shirt had little buttons that resembled pearls...I remember playing with them all the time, and I also remember my Mom telling me to stop "fussing" over them or they will fall off and then I will have to wear the regular buttons because there was no way she could afford getting another set of buttons like those. I had long skinny arms with white little spotches father's mom used to say that I got the spots because my Mom didn't feed us Mom believed her (now, I know that I am a bit allergic to the sun and if I spend too many hours outside without any sunblock, my skin blisters and if I scratch the blisters, white little spots emerge as scar-reminders-of-the-blisters. )

Dsc00882 That afternoon, we were coming back from school, my Mom had picked up me up as always and taken us to some store (long forgotten). When I got on the bus, I was wearing my precious red backpack. I recall sitting in the little corner so that my Mom and sister would fit in the same seat. After the laughter and talking everything else is a haze as if it wasn't really me who was there. Mom shook me awake, I groggily got off the bus (with my Mom tugging at my hand) and onto the hot, humid streets of Lazaro Cardenas.  After rubbing the sleep off my eyes, my thoughts turned to my backpack. I touched my back--no backpack. I asked my sister so Mom wouldn't hear, and no backpack. Anguish and disappointment washed over me like the waves crashing against the sandy shore. Tears started stinging my eyes and I knew that I had to ask, I just had to ask her to make sure...but the fear was overwhelming. I couldn't. I just couldn't tell her that I had lost only responsibility in life and I had misplaced it! With tears streaming down my cheeks,  I tugged on my Mom's hand and looking up at her dark brown eyes, I asked " you have my backpack?". . I was backpack, my sole possesion and responsibilty at that age and I had lost it. I don't remember much...but I remember my Mom bending down and saying, "Negrita, it will be alright, you can still go to school, I have an extra notebook for you." She wiped my tears with her blouse and my little sister and her embraced me.

My memories of my childhood are few, those spent with my Mom are even less. There are days that if I concentrate or I just sit and knit on my own, flashes of my past come to me as if I were in a dream. I search for these moments of solitude to view into my past and learn more about who I am, or why I am the way I have become.

My knitting hours have been plenty lately and the synapses have sparked more cherished memories, it may be because of the connection of my knitting to my Grandma, or it may be the rhytmic movements of my knitting, whatever the reason, it is nice to see into the past.

Pictures above:

The knitted sample was loom knitted--lots of yarn overs. On my trip back from Idaho, idle hands met yarn and loom. A few tries later, I had a beautiful drop stitch lace (?) that would look beautiful on a scarf or a shrug.

Dsc00830 [flowers outside my house]

The books were my spoils from the trip.While I didn't make it to the yarn shop in Idaho Falls...Borders was open and I picked up The Knitter's Companion and The Knitting Answer Book--while the content of the 2nd book is priceless, I have to admit that the main reason I got it was it's size--I am a sucker for little books....have you seen it? It is tiny and I can see me carrying it in my knitting bag...usually, my No. 1 reference book is Vogue Knitting...but that is one huge honking book and there is no way I can haul that around, but this treasure at 4.5"x6" can fit almost anywhere. Opening the book yields a ton of answers to many of my knitting questions (remember, I only have about a year of experience knitting with needles).


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Thank you for sharing your sweet story.



awww.. what a cute story!


Sweet story, thank you for sharing.

Jennifer Larck

I remember my grandmother call me negrita growing up. It was so sweet to hear her talk to me. She would pick me up from school and have ham and cheese on saltine crackers ready for me. Funny how you remember special moments.



The top picture almost looks like a bracelet, which would be very cool.


Such beautiful flowers you are growing!! Sweet story too.


Thanks for sharing such a special memory with us!


Negrita literally means little black one (in feminine) connotation. My family has always called me Negrita because of my skin coloring...although they all have a tanned complexion, I am the only that is really, really dark. She still calls me Negrita--I believe it is her way of telling me that she loves me :)


What a precious memory. Spanish question for you: what's the significance of your mom calling you "Negrita"? I know literally it means "little black," (thanks to my three years of Spanish in high school and three years in college) but I've also heard my Chicana SIL call her kids that. What's the English equivalent?

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