Post by Rhonda on Feb 6, 2009 5:27:14 GMT -5
GRAMMIE'S LEGACY OF LOVE
by Stefanie Wass
"Please just go to sleep." I silently beg the small pink bundle
cradled in my lap.
The old wooden rocking chair, creaking endlessly against the
floorboards, seems to work against my best efforts to get my infant
daughter, and myself, some much-needed rest.
Standing up, I try a new position. This time, swaddling my
daughter in her fuzzy blanket and holding her close to my chest. Her
squirms and gurgles do nothing to reassure me that this will be an
easy night. Mockingly, the digital clock flips to 3am.
An overflowing laundry basket stares menacingly from the corner
of the room. I have tried it all -- nursing, rocking, and even
several different types of pacifiers, which were promptly spit right
back in my general direction, thank you very much.
Exhaustion begins to overwhelm me as tears start to flow, this
time from me, the mother, the supposedly competent adult. Big blue
eyes stare up at me as the clock slowly ticks forward.
Why can't this be easier? All I want to do is sleep. Looking
around the room for something to get my mind off this seemingly
endless night, I spot the blue and pink patchwork quilt hanging on
the nursery wall. My grandmother wanted me to have a baby quilt, and
began her stitches before I was even pregnant.
At age 88, Grammie sensed that time was of the essence. I smile
as I count seventeen hand-sewn calico hearts. These are blocks full
of love, I think to myself.
Somehow I feel my grandmother's presence as I look up at the
quilt she made for my daughter. She rocked seven babies and never
complained. A set of twins when she only had clothes and supplies
for one child. Her baby boy died in infancy.
I can do this. Just have patience, like Grammie. Looking up at
the quilt, my memories take me back to childhood visits to my
grandmother's Western Pennsylvania farm.
A one-lane gravel road led to the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse
where Grammie always welcomed me with a big kiss and soft sugar
cookie, complete with raisin eyes, nose, and smile. Inhaling, I can
again smell the comforting scents of a farm summer -- freshly baled
hay, sweet, garden-fresh tomatoes, and mint leaves picked for a
refreshing drink of tea. This was a good place -- a homestead to our
family for generations.
Closing my eyes, I can once again hear the familiar swish-swish
of cows' tails shooing away flies in the barn. Grammie, busy washing
milkers for the dairy cows each morning, takes time out to open the
milk tank, showing me the swirling gallons ready to be sent to the
local dairy. She involves me in all of the farm chores, from hoeing
weeds to picking garden vegetables for supper.
"I am not a very fast bean-picker," I comment, noticing my
near-empty basket.
"Every bean you pick is one I don't have to", she smiles. "You
are Grandma's good helper."
Stepping into the farmhouse, I can smell the yeast rising on a
miniature loaf of bread Grammie has made just for me.
"Just pinch off the dough between your fingers", she instructs,
helping me make homemade rolls and egg noodles. When I mistakenly
turn the oven to broil instead of bake, I am told that, "Elderberry
pie always tastes better with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on it
anyway."
Reaching up to touch the many careful stitches on my baby's
quilt, I remember afternoons spent sewing with Grammie, as an 8 year
old girl learning how to sew patchwork squares into blankets for my
dolls. Colorful fabrics and pattern books cover the wooden dining
room table, evidence of Grammie's other projects put on hold.
Our time spent together is precious -- time to thread a needle,
talk, and feel the love between generations.
Standing now as a young mother looking at the quilt above her
baby's crib, I am ashamed of my selfish thoughts. Why in the world
am I crying? Sure, this is a rough night, but I have a perfectly
healthy baby and all the time in the world to love and comfort her.
This night won't last forever, so I'd better take it all in --
baby powder smells, cuddly closeness, and ten tiny fingers wrapped
around mine.
Feeling the supportive spirit of my grandmother, I bend down to
kiss my baby's soft cheek. A quilt covered in hearts reminds me of
all that is really important in life.
Sh-h-h, my child -- a grandmother's legacy of love will see us
through this long night.
-- Stefanie Wass <swass at adelphia.net>
by Stefanie Wass
"Please just go to sleep." I silently beg the small pink bundle
cradled in my lap.
The old wooden rocking chair, creaking endlessly against the
floorboards, seems to work against my best efforts to get my infant
daughter, and myself, some much-needed rest.
Standing up, I try a new position. This time, swaddling my
daughter in her fuzzy blanket and holding her close to my chest. Her
squirms and gurgles do nothing to reassure me that this will be an
easy night. Mockingly, the digital clock flips to 3am.
An overflowing laundry basket stares menacingly from the corner
of the room. I have tried it all -- nursing, rocking, and even
several different types of pacifiers, which were promptly spit right
back in my general direction, thank you very much.
Exhaustion begins to overwhelm me as tears start to flow, this
time from me, the mother, the supposedly competent adult. Big blue
eyes stare up at me as the clock slowly ticks forward.
Why can't this be easier? All I want to do is sleep. Looking
around the room for something to get my mind off this seemingly
endless night, I spot the blue and pink patchwork quilt hanging on
the nursery wall. My grandmother wanted me to have a baby quilt, and
began her stitches before I was even pregnant.
At age 88, Grammie sensed that time was of the essence. I smile
as I count seventeen hand-sewn calico hearts. These are blocks full
of love, I think to myself.
Somehow I feel my grandmother's presence as I look up at the
quilt she made for my daughter. She rocked seven babies and never
complained. A set of twins when she only had clothes and supplies
for one child. Her baby boy died in infancy.
I can do this. Just have patience, like Grammie. Looking up at
the quilt, my memories take me back to childhood visits to my
grandmother's Western Pennsylvania farm.
A one-lane gravel road led to the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse
where Grammie always welcomed me with a big kiss and soft sugar
cookie, complete with raisin eyes, nose, and smile. Inhaling, I can
again smell the comforting scents of a farm summer -- freshly baled
hay, sweet, garden-fresh tomatoes, and mint leaves picked for a
refreshing drink of tea. This was a good place -- a homestead to our
family for generations.
Closing my eyes, I can once again hear the familiar swish-swish
of cows' tails shooing away flies in the barn. Grammie, busy washing
milkers for the dairy cows each morning, takes time out to open the
milk tank, showing me the swirling gallons ready to be sent to the
local dairy. She involves me in all of the farm chores, from hoeing
weeds to picking garden vegetables for supper.
"I am not a very fast bean-picker," I comment, noticing my
near-empty basket.
"Every bean you pick is one I don't have to", she smiles. "You
are Grandma's good helper."
Stepping into the farmhouse, I can smell the yeast rising on a
miniature loaf of bread Grammie has made just for me.
"Just pinch off the dough between your fingers", she instructs,
helping me make homemade rolls and egg noodles. When I mistakenly
turn the oven to broil instead of bake, I am told that, "Elderberry
pie always tastes better with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on it
anyway."
Reaching up to touch the many careful stitches on my baby's
quilt, I remember afternoons spent sewing with Grammie, as an 8 year
old girl learning how to sew patchwork squares into blankets for my
dolls. Colorful fabrics and pattern books cover the wooden dining
room table, evidence of Grammie's other projects put on hold.
Our time spent together is precious -- time to thread a needle,
talk, and feel the love between generations.
Standing now as a young mother looking at the quilt above her
baby's crib, I am ashamed of my selfish thoughts. Why in the world
am I crying? Sure, this is a rough night, but I have a perfectly
healthy baby and all the time in the world to love and comfort her.
This night won't last forever, so I'd better take it all in --
baby powder smells, cuddly closeness, and ten tiny fingers wrapped
around mine.
Feeling the supportive spirit of my grandmother, I bend down to
kiss my baby's soft cheek. A quilt covered in hearts reminds me of
all that is really important in life.
Sh-h-h, my child -- a grandmother's legacy of love will see us
through this long night.
-- Stefanie Wass <swass at adelphia.net>