Made With Love

When I was very young, my grandma crocheted an afghan for our family. It was meant for general use, but I laid claim to it early on. I was fascinated by how all those squares were each unique. I looked and looked for repeats, but there were none. My grandma was just too clever for that. I also liked how each square was individual on the inside but brought together by a unifying border of black yarn. That afghan made me feel connected to my grandma--thinking of her choosing odds and ends of yarn from her wooden bowl and sitting on her red plaid couch watching “Wheel of Fortune” while working on a gift for us. When I lost my grandma recently, that afghan of many colors came to my mind again for the first time in years. I wondered if it was still around somewhere so I could take solace from it, but it was just wishful thinking. It was long gone and that fact, added to fresh loss, felt really unbearable. Then I realized something wonderful: my grandmother hadn’t just given me a blanket, she had shared with me a love of creating things and the best way to remember her was to make myself a new afghan. Which I promptly did. In Patricia Polacco’s The Keeping Quilt, a family tells their story of love in every stitch of a beautiful blanket. I keep mine on the back of the couch and think of my grandma every day.

http://www.amazon.com/Keeping-Quilt-Patricia-Polacco/dp/0689844476

http://www.patriciapolacco.com/

This Hurts Me More Than It Hurts You

Did you ever have someone in your life do something mean in the name of teaching you a lesson? I understand the school of hard knocks works, but it always seems a little harsh when family members are the professors. Years ago a high-ranking guy in my religion of origin came to town, and though I don’t recall all of his presentation, one story comes to mind often. He wanted to go to a dance as a young man and asked his mother what chores he would have to do to get permission. She gave him a list of jobs and told him that if those tasks were finished by a certain time and with proper attention to detail he could go. He worked all day with great industriousness, careful to be thorough, and, when late afternoon came, reported that he was finished and ready to go dancing. Then came the part of the story that still bothers me. His mother told him he could not go. Not because he had shirked any of his responsibilities, but because sometimes life will be disappointing and young people should learn to live with disappointment. I’m sure I was supposed to marvel at the wisdom of mothers who produce great men, but all I’ve ever been able to muster is anger at how ludicrous and cruel that was. I don’t and didn’t get it. In Babushka’s Doll, Tasha’s grandma teaches her a lesson the hard way. Which is apparently not the nice way.

http://www.amazon.com/Babushkas-Doll-Patricia-Polacco/dp/0689802552

http://www.patriciapolacco.com/author/bio/bio.html