While I was growing up here in Wisconsin my grandma’s lived in New York and Florida. A visit a year was as good as it got. But thankfully right down the road was a kindly woman who was already grandma to a whole passel of kids and didn’t mind, at all, adding one more to the pack. And so it was. I grew up spending hours and days (and a few nights too) at Lillian’s. While us kids trooped in and out of the house asking for any number of things that might help us better build a dam in the creek, or secure some rope in the haymow, or fashion a bridle for the workhorse, Lillian humored us and found whatever we were looking for. Then wiping her hands on her apron she went back to baking bread, making butter and frying up small forest mammals that were never served at my house. Outside, her gardens grew ramshackle but functional. Kittens played in the dirt beneath sprays of colorful hollyhocks, chickens pecked in the driveway and the old red hound-dog brayed constantly on his chain. The garage was jam-packed in the spring with baby chicks under warming lights, and in the barn was a milking cow. I went to second grade bragging I knew how to milk her. Seriously.
I grew up and left home, then returned with a family and a busy life. I’ve only seen Lillian a handful of times since my childhood days of running through her house with hay in my hair. Recently the girls and I went for a visit. Well into her eighties now she seems no different to me than 30 years ago. Although she isn’t gardening anymore and the old farm is more run-down than ever, her home still bustles with her activity. These days it’s her handwork that receives most of her attention. When Iris was born she made her a quilt with twelve beautiful hand-traced and embroidered panels. Then after Elsa was born she called to say her quilt was done too. Twelve more cross-stitched panels (that’s 24!) for this beautiful quilt. To top it off she had made a patchwork doll blanket for the girls and embroidered pillowcases for Andy and I. I can’t even begin to fathom the time that went into these gifts.
When I exclaim over everything and tell her how much it means, she brushes it off gently and tells me she does this for all her grandchildren. And I wonder how I got so lucky.
As I strive to honor the art of home-making in this life that is ours, I think now of Lillian sitting in her chair by the window watching the neighbors drive by as she stitches. And I hope that even though she is only my grandma by love, not by blood, that some of her wisdom was passed on to me.
possuminthecompost.wordpress.com 