Going Back in Time

I remember a squat, wooden box with four legs that stood just to the right of Granny’s favorite chair like a faithful pet, holding darning eggs and other sewing accessories.  To the left, a window showcased her flower garden.  Imposing gladiolas stood on the other side of that window in late summer, shouting visual glories from their multi-colored trumpets.  I can still picture Granny sitting in that chair with a decorative brooch modestly pinning the V-neck of her housedress, as she methodically darned holes in socks - slowly and carefully weaving threads while spikes of color waved in the background.

Great Aunt Jen’s tatting shuttles were stored in that same sewing box.  The two sisters lived together toward the end of their lives, but Aunt Jen’s near-blindness severely curtailed her activities. Her magnified eyes curiously peered at me like deep, watery pools from behind thick lenses, distorted yet always friendly. I was told that before those glasses, she did lots of handwork: crocheting, embroidering, knitting, and tatting intricate lace edges for pillowcases – her way of inviting weary heads to lie down for rest amidst beauty.

The old sewing box harkens back to a phase when I was interested in playing hide-and-seek with barn kitties, or snooping in the musty-smelling attic with its feather bed filled with down from Granny’s chickens.  There were stories about that attic - how my dad hid secretive things in the floor boards, and how Grandpa used to slaughter a hog that would hang up there all winter, providing cuts of meat as needed.

And yet I was a thoughtful child, and paid attention.  I noticed things, like darning eggs and flowers. I realized Granny’s life was predictably orderly and quiet, and appreciated the resulting calm.  I liked the tantalizing aromas always hanging heavy in her kitchen, and how cookie jars (one in the kitchen, one in the dining room) were dependably full of spicy molasses cookies. There was something unique about all of that that made the world secure and right.

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Today I rediscovered a few relics from Granny’s sewing box: darning eggs and tatting shuttles that had been stashed in a little child-sized trunk belonging to my mother when she was a girl (just slightly bigger than Granny’s box, and memorable in its own right). As memories replayed, I couldn’t help but note how lifestyles have changed drastically.  We no longer darn socks (now considered disposable), and are shaped by expectations for speed and convenience that tend to redefine, or even overlook, beauty.  As I cradled those mementos in my hands, their messages seemed clear: challenges yield character, simplicity renews and nurtures, and hard work pays big dividends in fulfillment.