The Reusable Yarn

Someone once told me a story about an old woman who was an expert knitter. Not surprising, I interjected with sarcasm, that a woman's greatest natural talent, after so many years of life, would be for such a traditional, domestic skill.
Just listen, the person told me.
The old woman lived in a small town, somewhere not far from here, but that you would be surprised to know actually existed, the kind of place so easily forgotten.

There the old woman lived alone for many years. No one was really sure how old she was, or how long she had been living in the town. Most of the people were new to the area; it was one of those towns with a lot of new developments, complexes for new families, where all the trees were cut down and you had to drive ten minutes to the grocery store. No one really knew each other, except perhaps in a line up one neighbor could identify another neighbor. "Yes, that's him" they would say, "I've seen him watering his lawn on Sunday mornings."

The old woman was probably the oldest person in town, other than the congregation of preists that lived next to the church.

but everyone knew who she was, because she could knit anything, and the wives of the young families would flock to church bake sales because the old woman would always be giving away the latest children's garments she had knitted: hats, scarves, sweaters, booties--all for the constant influx of newborns.

No one really paid much attention to the woman, otherwise.
That is, until the famine.