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I grew up in a small town in Indiana where entire families, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents, lived within blocks of one another or sometimes, as was the case in my family, within houses. It was a close knit community where the neighbors enjoyed telling stories of your parents and grandparents exploits as young people and every house, no matter who lived there, was a safe place.

My grandmother, a teacher, lived just two houses away so I spent almost as much time with her as I did my parents. Together when it rained, we sat on the front porch listening to the pitter patter of raindrops just as my grandmother had done with her grandfather on that very same porch. And when it was too cold to sit outside, we wiled away the hours playing cards and doing crafts. It was at my grandmother's side that I learned the joy of macram'.

I didn't know at the time where macram' originated nor that it had been around since the 13th century. It didn't matter whether it was born at the hands of bored sailors occupying their time on long journeys or, as might be the case, Arabian weavers creating ornamental veils. To me, it was yet one more example of my grandmother's many and surprising talents.

As I sat working with the twine, I didn't know what I was creating. I listened. I followed. I learned. It was such an enjoyable past time that each moment I was free, I could be found at my grandmother's making tiny little twists and even small knots. Little by little those knots grew. From what started as a ball of nothing, a piece of art was being born. And when my grandmother and I finished, what we had was not just a beautifully decorative plant holder, but a magical memory only we two shared.