Gift of Love

My grandmother, Ynez, was an accomplished seamstress.  Like any well-brought up daughter of the early 20th century, she learned to sew at her mother’s knee.   During the Depression days, she made clothes for the two daughters she had been left to bring up on her own, and on occasion very stylish clothes for herself.  And here I’ll digress just a little bit.  Back to her sewing talent in just a minute.

In 1948 she married the wonderful man, H.B., that we would know as our grandfather and they made a home together in the same neighborhood in which she grew up, in the Midway section of Kannapolis, NC.   Her two daughters, who called H.B. “Daddy”, finished their teenaged years in that house.  (They shared a bedroom, and the house had only one bathroom.  I can only imagine the fights.) My mother and her sister married in a double wedding in December of 1953, and almost three years later I came along, closely followed by my cousin Cathy in 1957.  Cathy and I were destined to be best friends.

When we started coming along, Grandmother’s sewing machine started to hum.  She loved her granddaughters and one of her greatest pleasures was sewing little clothes for us.  In my first formal  “seated” portrait at the age of 3, I am wearing a little dress that had a little red skirt and a white pique top embroidered with cherries, and had a little lace collar.  It was lovingly constructed by her.  

There are lots of warm memories associated with my grandmother and their home:  their ‘50s-chic kitchen with its pink appliances and black and white checkerboard linoleum, and the white painted miniature shutters over the kitchen window;  the den where we would watch television on their “Magnificent Magnavox”.  In the mornings, that den was always dimly lit by the sun coming in from the front  bedroom, and when a train would roll by from the tracks less than a block away, the house would shake just a bit.  This was where we kids would watch our morning TV shows such as “Captain Kangaroo”, and Joey the Clown on WSOC.  In the afternoons, she never missed watching Betty Feezor on WBTV, and she and Bernice, her housekeeper, would watch the “soaps” together while Bernice ironed.  To this day, when I smell steam or spray starch it takes me right back to the theme songs from “As the World Turns” or “The Edge of Night”.  My cousin and I were particularly entertained by the old “Raid” commercials, and made a game out of pretending to answer a doorbell and then run screaming, “it’s RAID!” from the room.  

And then there was sound of that well-oiled Singer sewing machine, run expertly by my grandmother.

Her machine was set up in the front bedroom, and she had her own dressmaker’s dummy.  I was always fascinated by it.  Her sewing basket, a light green wicker basket with flowers painted on its lid, was occasionally stored on some shuttered shelves in that front bedroom.  All of her notions were kept in it; her little appliques, her spools of Lily and Coats and Clark thread; snaps, hooks and eyes; her pattern tracers; and her dressmaker’s shears, a silver pair made by Wiss.  I remember her cutting out patterns with those scissors, carefully and precisely, and having to stand still while she fit clothes to me that were straight-pinned so that she could make sure they fit before they went on the Singer.  “Stand still, Sue-Sue…I’ll be done in just a minute.” And I would try to stand still and not complain about straight pins sticking me in the legs, arms or my stomach.

Ever wish you could back and recapture a moment in time? Or a day? There are times when I wish that, just for a little while, I could return to 1963 and my grandmother’s home.  Not to change anything, but to experience that love and security again.

And then, recently, I received a gift that brought it back to me.

My cousin Cathy is now not only my favorite cousin, but also my best friend and confidante.  We still laugh over silly things together and dish on our favorite movies and TV shows, but we are right there for each other in the best and worst of times.  Need advice?  We’ll dish it to each other in a heartbeat.  Since we live several hundred miles apart, thank goodness for cell phones and the internet.

She and I met for dinner a couple of weeks ago when she was in town, and she said she had a gift for me in the back of her car.  Right before we went into Nick’s in Gastonia, she opened the trunk and brought it out.  “Do you know what this is?”

In front of me was Grandmother’s sewing basket. My knees almost went out from under me.

We went in to dinner and spent several wonderful, wonderful hours talking, laughing and catching up.  Had I not had to work the next morning, it could have gone on longer. When we parted, I hugged her tightly and thanked her.  I couldn’t wait to get home and delve into the basket and its contents.

It was almost like having Grandmother in the room with me.  Spools of brightly colored thread, some dating back decades.  Bias tape, little appliques, snaps, hooks, eyes.  And buttons!  I was laughing through tears, wondering if she had ever thrown a single one out. Bags of buttons and several small containers of them, some basic, some cute, some downright elegant.  Her pattern tracers and a tapestry needle so big it almost looks lethal. Grandmother, what in the world did you use it for?

And…oh, my heart…her scissors. Her Wiss dressmaker’s shears.   I picked them up and ran my hands over them.  I was holding something she had touched over and over again.

This was more than a gift.  This was love and reassurance. I was touching my grandmother.

I have to admit that I’m not a seamstress, though I wish I were.  I’m a knitter.  But yesterday I needed to cut some yarn to change color, so I went to the basket and took out the shears.  Snip. Right through the yarn like a charm.  

The scissors will be cared for, polished and sharpened.  They – as well as the basket and its contents – will be cared for and cherished as a family heirloom.  I can almost hear Grandmother saying, “I know you’ll take good care of them, Sue-Sue.”

I will.  I promise.