Born in 1902, my grandmother was of the generation I think of as “The Menders” or “The Quilters.” Sewing and mending were just as much a part of keeping a household as cooking, baking, and raising children.
Grandma was my superhero. It seemed like she could do anything, and I greatly respected her because of that. Spiritually, physically, and emotionally, she was a strong person. I loved going to her house by myself and hanging out with her. The first thing we would do is have a tea party. I never knew ahead of time what activity we would do afterward. It was whatever was on the list of things Grandma had to do that day. As she cleaned up the dishes after our tea party, I would hang out in the dining room, looking at all her old books on the built-in bookcase. Other times, I would sit on the sofa with my doll, Mary Jane, waiting for her to finish in the kitchen.
One particular day, she sat in her rocking chair, reaching beside her for her sewing kit. I watched her as her nimble fingers made the tiniest of stitches while she mended and sewed. Other times, I would watch her make quilt blocks for all the quilts she made over the years. Sometimes, we talked, but often, there was silence as I watched her work.
But the thing that fascinated me the most was her sewing kit. I call it a kit because things were kept in various tins and jars, not just a basket. I didn’t know what most of the items were, nor did I know the names of the items, but Grandma would patiently explain what they were and how each item was used.
There were wooden spools of thread and lots of different size needles. There were thimbles, a seam ripper, tape measures, zippers, button snaps, scissors, safety pins, and buttons galore. There were odds and ends of small pieces of material, ribbons, and colorful pieces of rickrack. Rickrack had a zigzaggy appearance, and Grandma used it often to trim things like around apron pockets. It made me smile when I saw things trimmed in it.
I thought of that sewing kit as a small treasure chest filled with intriguing items. The buttons fascinated me with their brilliance and the different shapes, sizes, and colors. There must have been hundreds of them. She had them in an old canning jar that I loved to twirl in my hands round and round, watching how each one looked in the light. Sometimes, when I shook the jar to move the buttons around, it was like looking through a kaleidoscope as the patterns of the buttons changed each time I shook it.
Those were the days when clothes weren’t easily purchased and afforded. When clothes were outgrown, she removed the buttons and zippers to be saved and used on other things. The material was also saved and used for future projects, such as quilt blocks used in quilts made for the biting cold of frigid winters in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.
I remember coming home from Grandma’s one day and looking into my mom’s sewing kit. She had it in a round tin box. I was so proud of myself when I opened the lid and could tell my mom what each item was and how it was used.
All these years later, I still have those memories of my childhood with Grandma. When I get down on myself, when things aren’t going well, I take myself back to those happy times. It seems like I have had to do that a lot lately, but I am thankful I have those memories to look back on and cherish.
I like to pamper myself with a hot cup of tea in a bone china cup and think of those great memories of the past. On these cold nights, I sleep with one of her quilts on my bed, remembering. It’s almost like being tucked in by her all those years ago when I stayed overnight at her house.
I still have my mom’s round tin box in which she kept her sewing kit. It’s empty now, but I love to look at the box and remember.
Shortly after my grandmother died in 1990, I was given a small dopple bag. When I opened it, I found several kinds and colors of thread on wooden spools. When I moved recently, I found that bag with the thread reminding me that even though Grandma has been gone many years, her memory lives on, comforting me. It’s funny how something so small and seemingly inconsequential can bring a smile to a face. In my time of need, during that move, finding that piece of Grandma’s sewing kit was like having a hug from Grandma that I desperately needed.
What I have learned over the years and continue to learn is in these complicated times, those beautiful memories fuel me to keep going, putting one foot in front of the other. I refer to those memories as my “happy place.” A place where I am loved, wanted, and cared for without the angst and disparity of this world. It’s a reminder that what matters in life is not what we accumulate and take but what we give and do for others.
Written by: Laurie Davis
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When you write about grandma, I visualize everything in your story. You are so lucky to have lived close to her growing up. Living in another state, my sister and I weren’t blessed with having her to share those precious moments with. We only saw her a few times each year. Like you, I have one of grandma’s quilts on my bed. I have three of them in total. They are very prescious to me.
I love when you write about your memories of her.
Thank you for your story.
Your cousin Cheryl
Yes, I was blessed living near Grandma. She made such an impression on me, and I am glad to share the memories I have of her.
Thank you for your comment.
Laurie
Always enjoy the childhood memories you write about.
Thank you for commenting. I love sharing my stories with others, and I love when they resonate with others.
Laurie