My story: My grandmother was
one of the most incredible women I have ever known. She developed a spunk that
I adored after enduring a life of hardship. After surviving a very difficult
childhood in the depression, she married my grandfather, who she met at the
Ford factory where she worked on the assembly line for over 40 years. He left when my dad was only 8
months old, opting for a homeless, alcoholic life without them. She never
received a nickel of child support while raising my dad, all the while being
shunned by the small-town folk for being a divorcée. She married again when my
dad was 16 to a war veteran with a young son. Even into her 90’s, she lived on
a large farm, grew all of her own food, and delighted on making huge meals for
her family. She also a most magnificent craftswomen and artist, constantly
hand-sewing gorgeous quilts for her family. Snuggling next to her as she sewed, it is a favorite memory
of mine to hear her laugh when she would let me stay up late to watch “Hee Haw”
and "the Johnny Carson” show. A lot of the patterns on the quilts are made with
scraps of cloth that she also made dresses and aprons for me. I still can
picture her delight in watching me wear them.
Her quilts are a comforting
and warm remembrance of that time. Precisely six stitches per inch except for her name that she scribbled roughly, exactly as her handwriting. I sometimes catch myself gazing at her
signature on these brilliant tapestries, and miss her so much.
The truth: I have only one
bed, minimal closet space, and many of these quilts. Most of them, although
gorgeous, are not on display because of space constraints. All those hours she
spent making them, and they are pitifully folded at the foot of my bed on the
floor.
My action: I gave a few of
them away to family members who can use them now, instead of waiting for me to
die so they can inherit them! I wanted to keep them with the people that can
also remember her laugh when they look at her signature. I kept only the ones I
will use and rightfully cherish.
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