The Hands of My Mother

The hands of my Mother, and those of my Grandmother and Great-Grandmother, were never still. Gardening, canning, sewing clothes, quilting and crocheting, among all the mundane tasks, meant that every day needs were met. It also meant beauty, comfort and contentment, scattered throughout the days making the memories that are a part of the fabric of who I am.

Those things evoked the emotions that I now realize were the simple joy of home. There is something about the creating that brings peace and quiet happiness in making things for those you love. There is also the joy of being wrapped in the tangible love, even when the words aren’t spoken. The textures, sights, smells and noise of the familiar are the cut-out pieces of the story of the quilt of life. The hands that worked, hugged, loved, and sometimes spanked are the ones who pieced together the stories, making a beautiful, perfectly imperfect life that is handed down in the tangible and the intangible.

When I married, I was welcomed into another family of quilters, crocheters and seamstresses who created that same environment. One of my favorite stories of my Grandmother-in-law was of how she would bring home the plain aprons from work at “The Peerless” Mill in Rossville, GA. She would put lace, rick-rack and other decorations on. She loved beauty and it showed in her home and her rose garden, in the things her hands created and in the joy she found in helping her co-workers have something pretty on the drab fabric of a work apron. It was a stark contrast in the woman who didn’t show much emotion, but her love was shown in the beauty she created and gave away.

We have quilts from many of our family members. When my husband doesn’t feel well, he insists on lying under the “healing blanket,” the quilt that his Great-Grandmother made for him as a child. She was a little woman. Her tiny hands painstakingly used big, old, heavy scissors to cut out little pieces of fabric, pieced them together in a pattern that a rascally little boy would love for the rest of his life, and then hand-quilted it. I’m sure she never imagined how long that legacy of love would last. She never realized the comfort that a raggedy old quilt would bring to the man that grew up to show it and tell stories of the little woman who loved him.

I have scissors, patterns, a sewing machine and the quilting frames from my husband’s Great-Grandmother, as well as my own Great-Grandmother. I never knew her, but I can put my hand on these frames and be thankful that I have something that I can touch that gives me a glimpse of her. I can touch the quilts that her hands worked on, as I think of the stories I’ve been told about her. I can remember some of the beautiful afghans from another Great-Grandmother, remembering watching her hands, busy with a hook and yarns.

In my mind, I can see the hands of the women who’ve gone before, leaving a legacy of practicality, craft, talent and beauty. I see them using those tools that they left to me, heads bent over material, yarn, the sewing machine or the quilting frame.  To some, it may seem to be clutter or useless, tools long outdated. My own scissors now are ergonomic, light weight, spring-loaded, as I have arthritis in my hands and throughout my body.To me, those things, used so long ago, are priceless. They are my heritage and the gifts of my ancestors. It’s the tangible evidence of the threads of the love and the legacy of family and home.

I have seven Grandchildren of my own now. I hope that in years to come, they will have memories and quilts and Afghans from my own hands, as well as the stories of those distant women that they never knew. I hope that the legacy will live on and that they will continue creating through these same talents handed down and taught to them. After all, it’s the threads that bind us and hold us close in the gift of home.