In Grandma’s Footsteps

Gray hair is a crown of splendor; it is attained by a righteous life. Proverbs 16:31 (NIV)

A friend, whose birthday is next week, and I were talking about how we spent years dreaded turning 50 and then, when it was over, we took a breath and said, ‘Well, now that wasn’t so bad.” We agreed that was true about turning 50, but the subsequent years have not been as easy. It seems like we just turned 50 and now we are heading into the mid 50s. Each birthday brings us closer to 75 and 90. Before we know it, we will be little old ladies wobbling along on canes and eating at the buffet during the early bird special. The only thing that will keep me heading that direction with a smile on my face is the hope that I will become like my mother’s mother, Grandma Pace. I suppose I have been thinking about her a lot because I took her old sewing machine in to be repaired and now, have it set up in my craft corner just waiting to sew up some felted projects. That probably explains why after spending all morning at Vicki’s painstakingly sewing a beaded and felted pin cushion, I bought a cheap bright red tomato shaped pincushion at the fabric store. Attached to it is one of those strawberries which I did not know was called an emery. I clearly remember my grandmother’s identically shaped pincushion and running her pins and needles through it to clean them. Although my grandmother died almost two decades ago, I feel closer to her now that her sewing machine is working again. She held out for a long time before she would buy it. For many years, she did all her sewing on an old treadle Singer. On it, she sewed about a dozen layettes and receiving blankets each month for underprivileged babies born in our community. She made double bed sized quilts for each of her grandchildren and crib sized quilts for each great grandchild. She made almost all the clothes for my sister and me. Identical outfits except blue for me, red for her. She enjoyed the ease of the new machine, but never really got used to all the stitches it would do. When she moved into a nursing home, she gave her machine to me. I used it for a while, also sewing quilts and baby clothes. I, too, made curtains and toys. I remember the day it broke about twelve years ago. I was hemming a pair of my son’s blue jeans and the bobbin jammed. Angry, I shoved the machine in the back of my closet and it has been there until this week when the manager of a fabric store told me I would never find a machine better made that that one and I should get it repaired rather than buy a new one. So, I did. Now, not only do I have a sewing machine again, but a host of newly remembered memories of my grandmother. Maybe growing old won’t be so bad after all.