We may have heard that old saying about characteristics or traits skipping a generation...true or not,
I am testament to this saying in my own lineage. In so many ways I am unlike my mother.
Dearest heart and dearest friend that she was to me, I am different. We were different.
It is my grandmother I resemble more. Oh, not so much in physical features - although I have her genetics to thank
for the arthritis in my hands - but in our chosen activities. Pastimes. Personal pursuits.
My grandmother taught me to sew.
I don't remember my mother ever using a needle. As a single parent, she worked as an administrator in a high profile law firm. Those are skills I will never have, neither the parenting nor the legal ones. Grandma babysat me for long hours after school. It was then that I learned to not only drink what she called, coffee-milk (1/4 cup of coffee to
3/4 cup of milk...with about 3 teaspoons of white sugar), but also to play canasta, and mend.
I have kept her sewing box all these years....such a ratty old thing, which I stuck way back in a storage cupboard.
Recently when I needed a big-eyed needle, I knew where I could find one.
The box was chaos.
Bits & bobs of everything in a massive, tangled jumble. How many six inch segments of leftover rick-rack does one need to save? How about snaps missing their opposing sides?
So, I held a little impromptu reorganizing party and gathered together
my fondest memories...
Grandma kept her needles in their original packages. This one used to hold fifty...
a penny a needle.
Do you see those numbers, 7425? Written in my grandmother's hand.
Someone's phone number, jotted down quickly.
Back in the day, everyone in our town had the same prefix so phone numbers were always written like this.
Her sewing chair was right next to the telephone table.
Imagine...ten cents for 18 crewel needles made in England...
This is my favorite grouping
- every needle once in use -
but more than that, I remember my grandmother showing my awkward, young hands
how to re-stick the needles here.
Her fingers were gnarled & bent, yet their misshapenness was so meaningless to her...
now mine are the same.
: : :
This post is a commemoration (of sorts)...it was a year ago this week when I accidentally stabbed myself with a sewing needle and a dangerous infection, along with a long course of intravenous antibiotics, took over my right hand - and my life -
for four long months. It was a dark time.
And it is no more.
: : :
You may have noticed there's been quite a bit of photographic experimentation going on
around these parts of late...thanks for putting up with me :>]]
I'm having a rip-roaring time! Here's what I worked on today for Day 8 in 'Beyond Layers.'
In honor of.