My grandmère, Mémé, almost uniquely knit socks for my cousin François. She was among other things a stage actress, who was taught to knit by someone who worked with her at the theatre. To calm nerves, pass time. She also smoked Viscount cigarettes, and lit them with tiny elegant imported Italian matches that had slim waxed paper matchsticks. We fought over blowing out the match, and the boxes the matchsticks came in. Each of them had a different picture, formative classical art education I guess. I remember my grandmother only knitting once for my sister and I, these two sweaters. They fit us for one cold August, and were promptly unravelled and knit into socks. I came by the sock thing honestly.