Mourning in Color, Part 5

On the heels of dealing with my mother's clothing and personal things, we're cleaning out our house in Vermont in preparation for selling it. In addition to presiding over the welcome exodus of thirty years of accumulated un-necessities, I'm entering a much greyer area, as I go through my own things, the stuff of our marriage, the memories of our families. It's not easy.

Yesterday I finished my clothes closet; the sideboard in the dining room, full of odd-sized dishes, platters, candles, vases, placemats and napkins; the living room closet; various chests; and then went on to the attic where I went through a dresser full of table linens, passed on to me (as the resident needleworker) by both sides of the family. Some of these pieces meant nothing special - they had been bought by my mother-in-law, or my grandmother at an auction or antique store. Others had stories: a set of placemats and napkins cross-stitched by my mother; two lace tableclothes made by my grandmother; fine crocheted pineapple-stitch round placemats made by my great-grandmother; and in a small cardboard box, her mother's own lace collar - yellowed but still in good shape - worked in delicate cutwork embroidery. From J.'s family, there are two large table cloths, decorated with Armenian cross-stitch, drawnwork, and embroidery, with matching sets of hand-worked napkins: precious to us and irreplaceable. I sorted everything into piles: to be kept, to be sold, to be given to family, to be thrown away.

Some things were stained, and I did two loads of laundry on the delicate cycle. After lunch I sat down in the living room, and began on the yarn: an old sugar bucket full of cottons, a brittle antique Nantucket basket that holds needles and supplies, and a big melon basket full of current projects and yarn waiting to be knit. I put the good yarn into one pile, and set the odds and ends and knit swatches into another, to be thrown away. That was when I finally unraveled, too, because each of those samples represented a project planned and discussed with my mother, just as she had always discussed her knitting plans with me, as we sat in our own houses - phone in hand and the yarn basket nearby.

I bought yarn for her just a few weeks before she died: she wanted to knit an Aran sweater for a little great-nephew, and, happy that she felt like starting a project, I had gone to the store and picked out some dark celery-colored wool. She liked it and started the back ribbing right away, spending an hour each morning with her dear frined Mary, who brought her own knitting and sat beside her, talking. But a week later my mother confessed to me that she was getting mixed up with the cable pattern. I found the project after she died, still on the needles, only a few rows of pattern completed. I haven't had the heart to take it up myself; she had barely begun.

The truth is that I've done too much of this. I helped my mother sort through her mother's yarn collection, years ago, incredulous to recognize skeins that had been stored under the bed where I played hide-and-seek as a child - knitters, of course, are hoarders, plotters, and eternal optimists abotu future projects. I sorted my mother-in-law's yarn and needles after she died, too, through one long afternoon of slowly untangling samples she'd abandoned in frustration, and half-knitted garments she'd been dissatisfied with, communicating silently with her about the beauty of the fibers she'd chosen, and the frustrations of old age.

In my knitting basket yesterday I found a small ball of bright pink mohair, left over from the shawl Mom knitted for me two Christmases ago, already knowing how ill she was. She must have sent the yarn along in case I ever needed to make a repair. The mohair was yarn my mother-in-law had left behind, and I had sent it on to my mother, thinking she'd like it but not expecting to have it return. The shawl lies now over the arm of the sofa, ready to enfold me in the middle of nights when I can't sleep. It's soft, and a lovely color, but it doesn't absorb tears.

Comments

[Rachel]

Oh, Beth. What a beautiful post. It leaves me a little teary. Thank you for sharing this.

[connie]

Dear Beth - it may not absorb the tears, but it comforts you when they flow and allows you to remember the love that will always enfold you that comes from her. Feel her arms around you as this shawl comforts you, as she would, in your grief. Thank you for sharing her with us.

[Mouse]

Your mother's shawl may not absorb the tears that her loss causes you to shed but does it enfold you like a mother's arms and keep you safe?

[Jean]

Oh Beth. Wishing you warm arms around you, which do absorb tears. And knowing that you know this is necessary and beautiful work, as well as hard. xxxxx

[Marja-Leena]

Me too, Beth! All the colours and textures of the wool and laces intertwined with memories...

"knitters, of course, are hoarders, plotters, and eternal optimists abotu future projects" - substitute sewers for knitters and that's me. I've got bags and bags of fabric scraps from a lifetime!

[lucy]

Beth, needlework is something my mother and I share too. She taught me to knit, crochet, embroider and sew, later on to spin wool into yarn and we studied handweaving together. I can easily imagine myself living out a version of this post when the time comes. Rather than finishing the things she started, maybe you could take a couple years (or longer) to make an afghan or blanket from the various yarns which might include details that the two of you discussed.

[Janet Murray]

Dear Beth,
We knitters are indeed horders. When a project can take years to finish, there is a lot of memories there as well. What a blessing for you to share fabric memories with you mother. Thank you also for your book on Gene.( I came across you via father jake. I am a member of Integrity Toronto for 8 years, and my husband Kim is the rector of our little island. Blessings,Janet Murray Salt Spring Island BC )

[Loretta]

Whether knitters or sewers or quilters or painters, these are sweet leftovers from tender lives. May your shawl encircle you with love and memory for many years.

[zhoen]

(o)