When I was a little girl, my parents didn't have much money. There were 7 of us kids. Mom had a huge garden. She baked her own bread - sometimes 20 loaves at a time. From the garden, she either canned or froze fruits and vegies.
When Christmas came, Mom would make a dress for my sister and one for me. She would blindfold us so we couldn't see what they looked like. I don't remember any of those dresses. I only remember standing, blindfolded, on a chair while she pinned and measured. I wonder how she felt when she was doing that. Was she excited to be making a surprise for me? Did she have to sacrifice somewhere in her limited budget to be able to afford the patterns and material? I don't remember it as being a fun or silly event - standing there blindfolded - she had a job to do and there was no messing around. I remember trying to imagine the dress by running my hands over it, trying to figure out what the pattern was. Then, when Christmas came, I don't even remember unwrapping the dress.
On the flip side, I remember my Dad either giving me mittens or slippers. Once I got a set of Lincoln Logs. I sit here and I picture my dear Dad going into Woolworth's or Penneys or Montgomery Ward to pick something out for me. I can see him standing there, choosing something for me and my sister. My eyes start to fill with tears. Everything about my Dad was good. He was so kind, so patient. The love he made me feel with his "good night" whisker rub still moves me. Dad wasn't outwardly expressive with his affection, but, boy, did I feel it. I wish I could have known him as an adult. He has been gone 41 1/2 years - and I still cry when I write about missing him. I am so lucky and I am so grateful for him. I just wish it didn't have to end when I was so young.
I married a man very much like my Dad. Bernie is patient to a fault. He is kind. He doesn't express his love in big, demonstrative ways, but what he does leaves no doubt about it.
And so, when I got married, my Mom gave me a quilt she had made. She embroidered the date and "Mom" in the bottom corner. It was really a patchwork of many scraps of material she had saved over the years. I suppose if I spent some time, I could go through each pattern and try to remember what she had made with that piece of material. But, I haven't done that in 41 years, and so I don't see myself doing it now.
Sometimes, when I want to grab a quick nap on my already made bed, I take that quilt out of the guest room closet and wrap myself in it. For a long time now, I have noticed that I snuggle it up around my nose and inhale. After 41 years, I swear I can still smell the smell of the home farm house. Being wrapped in that quilt and being drawn back home - could it be that the little girl in me imagines herself sitting on her Mommy's lap, wrapped in her love and that quilt? Or, could it be that that is just what that little girl in me wishes when she breathes in "home"? It is hard to imagine, because I can't recall once sitting on her lap with her arms snuggling me and smelling my hair and letting me know that she really, really loves me.
I see little Francie, teeth brushed and pajamas on, standing next to Dad in his big, green chair, telling him good night, and feeling him draw me close and giving me his 5 o'clock shadow 'whisker rub'. I giggle and run upstairs to bed. It is my last memory of the day. And, it is good. And, it makes my heart happy. "Good night, Daddy. I love you." "I love you, too, sis."
But, my Mom made me a quilt. It is very ragged and thin after all these years. But, I just can't get rid of it.
