Grampy's tea towels.He don't care. |
I went back a few days later only to see the ratty old towels back out, neatly hanging over the cupboard doors. Crestfallen, I asked; "Dad, where are the nice new tea towels I just bought you? Why are these nasty things back?" My scoldings don't really penetrate his crusty old cranium, yet I persist. "Well hell Cathy" he spat back. "They're in the spare room. (Mike and I call it the Armageddon room. A room full of enough toilet paper, Top Ramen and bottled water to outlast Doomsday ) "They are too nice for everyday use." He went on " I'll store them in there and get them out for special occasions. Now go sit down. Bonanza is just starting. Do you want a cup of (weak, disgusting, cold) coffee?" I sighed and sat, knowing I'd cast my towels before swine. You can lead a stubborn old man to a new tea towel, but you can't make him use it.
On the way home I got to thinking about my grandma's quilt. Grandma Stewart never cottoned much to us west coast grandkids, but she did make quilts for me and for my 2 sisters when we were teenagers. They were to be our wedding gifts, though she died before those momentous events took place. My mother wouldn't give me mine when I got married though. In my pre-wedding youthful, idealistic ignorance I had remarked that I had plans to cut it up into a hippie skirt. She gasped In horror, hid it away, and held onto it until I was over 40; old enough for her to be assured I had come my senses. I had.
These 3 quilts are all "postage stamp" quilts. A potpourri of tiny 2" squares, hand-cut from discarded clothing my grandma had collected from relatives and hand-stitched together, in spite of her failing eyesight and arthritic hands. Mine had been stored in a plastic bag up in the closet for over 40 years; it is priceless and treasured. Not to be used up by everyday life, then cast aside, I always told myself. Ever.
These 3 quilts are all "postage stamp" quilts. A potpourri of tiny 2" squares, hand-cut from discarded clothing my grandma had collected from relatives and hand-stitched together, in spite of her failing eyesight and arthritic hands. Mine had been stored in a plastic bag up in the closet for over 40 years; it is priceless and treasured. Not to be used up by everyday life, then cast aside, I always told myself. Ever.
I like the old windows behind my bed. :-) |
I got to thinking about how that quilt would most likely NOT be priceless and treasured by my beloved children after I passed on to Glory. And I know from experience that once you die, 90% of all your accumulated lifetime treasures are whisked away into a yard sale. I could see in my mind's eye my grandma's quilt in the "$3.00 OBO" box and the middle aged, tube-top wearing woman with a baby on her hip and a cigarette hanging from her mouth, offering my children $2.50 for it with intentions of using it to line the bed of her dirty white pickup truck. And furthermore...them accepting the offer.
Lord have mercy.
When I got home that day, I retrieved that quilt from my closet and laid it out on my bed. And there it lies to this day. It brings a smile to my face whenever I walk into my bedroom now. The grandsons jump on it, the littles ones nap on it, my dog burrows underneath it and it keeps me cozy and warm every night. It just might be threadbare by the time I pass on to that quilt-less land of Glory...maybe. But that's OK. Yard sale fodder may be it's future, but it will have been used and loved by me in the present. I think even crusty old Grandma Stewart would approve.
But then maybe not. Truth be told, the old lady might rather have seen it go into the Armageddon room with those damn tea towels.
you, my dear (old)(we are both in that category now thanks to that durn yardsaler) friend , are a gem. I am glad to know you and to read your yarns spun so well, true though they be.
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