Many, many years ago Son#5 made a small wall hanging on my old and rather temperamental sewing machine. For a time it hung in our hallway and then at one stage - probably during my annual getting ready for Christmas clean - I decided to wash it. And it shrunk. Badly. It came down off the wall and was packed away in a safe place. For a long time.
Recently I unearthed it and put it where I could see it while I tried to decide what to do about it. Last week I had a few minutes and I undid the quilting and separated the top from the backing and batting (which is what had shrunk so badly - and which I suspect was a leftover piece from the baby quilt I made for The Most Adorable Granddaughter#1 because that one also shrunk when DIL#1 washed it). A few days ago I made it up into a cushion cover and sent a photo to Son#5.
His response? "Why would you do anything with that?"
As DH said, because we're sentimental when it comes to things like that.
But actually it's more than just sentimentality. I tried to explain what it meant to us, but it's hard to express yourself in just a few words in a text message. So I'm going to try to explain it here.
Son#5 was only ten when he sewed that wall hanging. From memory, it was the first time he had sewn anything. He seems to think now that I did most of it, but that's not how I remember it. I may have helped him draft the pattern (I have a feeling we invented it ourselves), and I know I did the hand quilting once he had completed the sewing, but I remember him sewing the straight seams and I marveled then that he did such a great job.
I kept the wall hanging because I was proud of what he had done. Then and now. (And I'm not just talking about his sewing skills.)
I'm not sure why I taught Son#5 to sew that day. I wonder if perhaps his older brothers were out doing something else and he was bored and I said I could teach him to sew. Or perhaps he asked and I, for once, set aside my plans for that day, and taught him how to use my machine. I have a memory of him sitting down at the table (the same one he later took with him when he went flatting) in our old kitchen, the sun streaming through the windows and frosted glass door. The memory fills me with a warm glow - much the same as when he told me recently that his earliest memory is of me teaching him to swing.
When I look at that cushion now, I feel that warm glow. I remember those days of a young family around the house. I feel again that pride in the sons DH and I raised to adulthood.
I remember, too, the carefree days of summer. The trips to the beach and fishing or kayaking. Bringing sand home in our clothes and towels. Pets that went crazy at the beach and wouldn't let the boys in the water. I remember how much easier and less complicated it was when our boys were younger. Knowing where they were. Tucking them into bed at night. Reading stories and saying prayers. Feeling that we had more control over whether they were happy or not, what they ate, who they saw, what they did.
Son#5 may not understand why I wanted to bring this out of hiding and have it visible, but one day he will. Meanwhile I will continue to display it along with all the other treasures made by my sons over the years. Many of those treasures are still in hiding until our renovations are complete (almost there!) and we move back into all our rooms. Those treasures were made with love by willing and unwilling hands. For most, if not all, the tradition has continued and they continue to work with their hands whether it is large or small, something that can be seen and held (such as a thoughtful message on a card or a hand crafted lamp or wooden bowl), or something that is less tangible but still brings that warm glow (such as working on our house, or a hug or kind word just when I need it).
Sentimental or not, I treasure the time and thoughts and skills and love ... and every memory brings that warm glow.
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