Upon settling into our desks yesterday at work, one of my co-workers pulled out this beautiful blanket she's making for her daughter. She went on to explain how the blanket she made for her daughter as a baby is now used as a doll blanket. She outgrew that blanket long ago and it's time for a new one for her "big bed".
This brought up a discussion on baby blankets. Everyone had stories to tell about "blankies, binkies and dinkies". It was so endearing to hear how almost every one of us had such fond memories of these little bits of fabric or yarn barely held together by some miracle. (My grandmother used to say that the only thing holding my blankie together was years of spit and love.)
I had my blankie until I was five-and-a-half. I had gone "down south" from Ohio to Kentucky for a long summer trip to my grandparents' house. Two months can seem like an eternity for a child to be away from home, but to me it was one of the greatest times I've ever had. I didn't get to spend that much time with "Gramma and Grampa" as a child, with them living so far away and all. I was absolutely thrilled at being able to be there for this long in just one trip. Of course, I took "blankie" with me.
I have many memories of that summer. It was a summer of "firsts". I learned how to catch crawdads in the creek, make homemade playdough, found my first four-leaf clover, and had my first crush. It was the first time I remember hearing my grandfather tell me that he loved me. It was the first time I ever heard Grampa play the banjo and the first time I'd seen him and Gramma dance together. I have many, many memories of those two months, but not one of them includes that blanket.
I don't have one single memory of ever carrying that blanket around or sleeping with it at night. For years, I didn't even know that it existed. Once when I was in high school, my father made a brief comment about "the blankie". He announced that I had always went from one sort of material attachment to another. He went on to say that I went from the blanket to the bear...and the bear to the pillow...and the pillow to yet another blanket. Apparently, I've always had security issues.
When I was well into adulthood, my grandparents moved from Kentucky to Ohio to be closer to the family. My grandfather had become quite ill and it was necessary for them to be around family to help take care of them. Oh, how I wished they would have moved when I was younger...but my grandfather had always lived in the mountains and couldn't bear the thought of leaving them.
At the time of their move, I was working close to where they lived and I spent many a morning visiting them after work. I loved those visits. I think this is when I really got to know who my grandparents were. Who they were as people, that is...not just as "Gramma and Grampa". And I came to love both of them more than I could ever express in words.
Grampa was typically a man of few words (as is my father) and he mostly sat and listened to Gramma and I talk. He'd laugh on cue and mumble comments under his breath every now and then. I loved being within ear-shot of Grampa. He was actually one of the funniest people I've ever known. Not many really appreciated this as not many sat close enough to hear.
As the years went on, he started to talk more and more. I've learned all kinds of things from that man. I could have easily missed this in him as my family was quite estranged at the time. I'm grateful every day that I had the opportunity to listen.
One morning I arrived to the house, doughnuts in hand, to find my grandmother sorting through a huge box of old photographs. I asked her what she was getting into so early in the morning. She smiled and proceeded to share with me the contents of that tattered box. I didn't have any pictures of my childhood but I left that day with stacks in hand. This was by far the fondest memory I have of her. Sifting through the photos hearing stories of her childhood and stories of mine...it doesn't get much better than that.
As we were going through the box, she suddenly shot up from the chair and went into back bedroom. I sat down by my grandfather and talked to him for a while. I could hear my grandmother rummaging through things in the other room and was anxiously waiting to see what all of the commotion was about. She returned with a package rolled up inside of an old quilting fiber-fill bag.
"I found it," she proudly announced. She was gleaming.
"You haven't seen this in a while." I am sure I looked nothing but completely puzzled as she laughed aloud and urged me to open the package.
I quickly unraveled the bag and pulled out a tiny little yellow quilt with tattered edges and transparent backing. Instantly I smelled my grandmother's house "back home" in Kentucky. The scent alone brought tears to my eyes. It smelled of fried eggs, bacon and biscuits, along with the faint odor of moth balls and cigarettes.
I'm sure that turns the stomach of many; however, to me it was simply intoxicating. Memories of that little house nestled so cozily in the hills, that creek, family get-togethers--it all came flooding back. I don't think I realized how much I had missed that old home until that very moment.
I still don't remember having that blanket as a child. Gramma had quilted it for me when I was born and apparently we were completely inseparable for five-and-a-half years, that blanket and me. It was left in Kentucky after the summer I spent with them. My parents thought it "was time" for me to depart with my old friend. My grandmother had held onto it all of these years.
I still have that blanket tucked safely in a box in the closet in my bedroom. It's absolutely golden to me. It holds within it all of the love in the world. Every now and then I pull it out to breathe in that smell. To my surprise, it still smells exactly the same--fried eggs, bacon and biscuits...moth balls and cigarettes. That's what real love smells like, folks...at least to me.
This brought up a discussion on baby blankets. Everyone had stories to tell about "blankies, binkies and dinkies". It was so endearing to hear how almost every one of us had such fond memories of these little bits of fabric or yarn barely held together by some miracle. (My grandmother used to say that the only thing holding my blankie together was years of spit and love.)
I had my blankie until I was five-and-a-half. I had gone "down south" from Ohio to Kentucky for a long summer trip to my grandparents' house. Two months can seem like an eternity for a child to be away from home, but to me it was one of the greatest times I've ever had. I didn't get to spend that much time with "Gramma and Grampa" as a child, with them living so far away and all. I was absolutely thrilled at being able to be there for this long in just one trip. Of course, I took "blankie" with me.
I have many memories of that summer. It was a summer of "firsts". I learned how to catch crawdads in the creek, make homemade playdough, found my first four-leaf clover, and had my first crush. It was the first time I remember hearing my grandfather tell me that he loved me. It was the first time I ever heard Grampa play the banjo and the first time I'd seen him and Gramma dance together. I have many, many memories of those two months, but not one of them includes that blanket.
I don't have one single memory of ever carrying that blanket around or sleeping with it at night. For years, I didn't even know that it existed. Once when I was in high school, my father made a brief comment about "the blankie". He announced that I had always went from one sort of material attachment to another. He went on to say that I went from the blanket to the bear...and the bear to the pillow...and the pillow to yet another blanket. Apparently, I've always had security issues.
When I was well into adulthood, my grandparents moved from Kentucky to Ohio to be closer to the family. My grandfather had become quite ill and it was necessary for them to be around family to help take care of them. Oh, how I wished they would have moved when I was younger...but my grandfather had always lived in the mountains and couldn't bear the thought of leaving them.
At the time of their move, I was working close to where they lived and I spent many a morning visiting them after work. I loved those visits. I think this is when I really got to know who my grandparents were. Who they were as people, that is...not just as "Gramma and Grampa". And I came to love both of them more than I could ever express in words.
Grampa was typically a man of few words (as is my father) and he mostly sat and listened to Gramma and I talk. He'd laugh on cue and mumble comments under his breath every now and then. I loved being within ear-shot of Grampa. He was actually one of the funniest people I've ever known. Not many really appreciated this as not many sat close enough to hear.
As the years went on, he started to talk more and more. I've learned all kinds of things from that man. I could have easily missed this in him as my family was quite estranged at the time. I'm grateful every day that I had the opportunity to listen.
One morning I arrived to the house, doughnuts in hand, to find my grandmother sorting through a huge box of old photographs. I asked her what she was getting into so early in the morning. She smiled and proceeded to share with me the contents of that tattered box. I didn't have any pictures of my childhood but I left that day with stacks in hand. This was by far the fondest memory I have of her. Sifting through the photos hearing stories of her childhood and stories of mine...it doesn't get much better than that.
As we were going through the box, she suddenly shot up from the chair and went into back bedroom. I sat down by my grandfather and talked to him for a while. I could hear my grandmother rummaging through things in the other room and was anxiously waiting to see what all of the commotion was about. She returned with a package rolled up inside of an old quilting fiber-fill bag.
"I found it," she proudly announced. She was gleaming.
"You haven't seen this in a while." I am sure I looked nothing but completely puzzled as she laughed aloud and urged me to open the package.
I quickly unraveled the bag and pulled out a tiny little yellow quilt with tattered edges and transparent backing. Instantly I smelled my grandmother's house "back home" in Kentucky. The scent alone brought tears to my eyes. It smelled of fried eggs, bacon and biscuits, along with the faint odor of moth balls and cigarettes.
I'm sure that turns the stomach of many; however, to me it was simply intoxicating. Memories of that little house nestled so cozily in the hills, that creek, family get-togethers--it all came flooding back. I don't think I realized how much I had missed that old home until that very moment.
I still don't remember having that blanket as a child. Gramma had quilted it for me when I was born and apparently we were completely inseparable for five-and-a-half years, that blanket and me. It was left in Kentucky after the summer I spent with them. My parents thought it "was time" for me to depart with my old friend. My grandmother had held onto it all of these years.
I still have that blanket tucked safely in a box in the closet in my bedroom. It's absolutely golden to me. It holds within it all of the love in the world. Every now and then I pull it out to breathe in that smell. To my surprise, it still smells exactly the same--fried eggs, bacon and biscuits...moth balls and cigarettes. That's what real love smells like, folks...at least to me.
2 comments:
Very nice.
Thanks :)
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