On a scale of 1 to 10 how do you feel about the job ahead of you today? Oh, just about a 25.
We got the shelving up yesterday, so today I will begin with the chore of sorting my stuff. I thought that I have lots of plastic boxes to put stuff into, but they must be buried somewhere in the mess. Onward!
When I was a child, my grandparents lived with us. Doc, my grandpa died when I was about seven. Nonny died in 1954 when I was 12. Mom followed her the next year. What happened to their stuff?
I remember only one thing and that was a white cotton crocheted coverlet that was stashed in a closet in Nonny’s room. I wonder where it went, and what happened to all of her knitting and sewing stuff. I seriously doubt that there was a stash, but there were tools and books and other stuff. Gone, all gone.
I picture what will happen to my stash, my knitting machines, my sewing machines, my rug hooking tools. Most of it will probably end up in a large dumpster, along with all of my genealogy research paperwork. I know it, I just know it.
So, I guess that what we pass on, because they cannot be put into the dumpster, are memories.
I remember Nonny knitting a twin set for my sister. The yarn was a bit bumpy, a beautiful coral color. I had probably stood still for what seemed like forever, holding the yarn hanks on outstretched arms while Nonny wound the balls of yarn. Funny, I never remember the finished sweaters. Did they have UFO’s back in the forties and fifties do you think?
I remember Mom sewing a dress for me. It was Indian Head cotton, I think it was green, kinda a south pacific sea green. She sewed rows and rows of lace to the inside of the bodice to give me my first ‘shape’.
I remember gardens, and cooking, and doing dishes with my sister, making soap suds galore with the egg beater. I remember eating fresh peas, right out of the garden with lots of butter.
I have my memories, and lots of perennials that I took from the old house and have transplanted from my first house to here. I also have a stainless steel cabbage slicer.
Is this getting stuff done, no. This is called procrastinating.
Mom's bleeding heart, several
generations later
