Holiday Hooking, Such As It Is

Sweaters for my nieces finally complete. I'm abandoning any hope or expectation the sweaters will be liked or worn or appreciated. Depending on how they react when they open the sweaters might indicate whether I give or make gifts for either of them again. I know I've said this before, that I'm not going to make handmade items for so-and-so again, but inspiration takes hold of me, and I must yield to it. 

Every stitch (at least of the first sweater, the Sweater Made of Twee) I thought about the recipients. It's like a rosary of sorts, meditating, thinking of how it'll be worn, and hoping that the sweater proves to be useful for either/both of the recipients. It's about as personal as it gets. Much more personal than merely buying a gift card.

I still have the baby blanket/doll blanket my great-grandmother made for me, using up wool remnants on a Weavette loom. I wish I still had the doll clothing her sister knit or crocheted for my doll. My mom is not a sentimental person, and did not ensure these things were held aside as I got older. And only now, I regret not having those tangible things on hand. Not that I even have the doll for which those clothes were made. Or any of the booties my nana and another great-aunt made for us. And how every Christmas, we each were given a pair of these booties, and we were lucky if between the five of us in the house, if between all those pairs of booties, if we could match up one pair together, with one pair of booties of identical size. Each bootie made, rarely, if ever, had a mate that matched 100% in size. 

I remember from year to year, my nana would carefully remove the tape from edges of "good" wrapping paper, and iron it, and keep it under couch cushions from year to year, and re-use that wrapping paper each year until finally there would be a piece too small and impractical to save. I was a lucky person. My great-grandmother lived until I was 20. And for ten years, I lived in the house adjacent to hers. And for roughly two years prior to her entry to a nursing home, we resided IN her house and took care of her until that care became so burdensome, we needed help and had to put her in a facility. 

I remember sitting under an apple tree during a muggy August day, sitting and talking about people I've never met, and places I've never been, but have heard of enough times it is as if I know those people and places. I remember her out there in her 80s, wearing nothing but a slip and rubber rain galoshes, tending to her garden, and eating the tender corn off the stalks, sitting there under the apple tree, tossing the tiny tender cobs off to the side. 

I remember all her neighbors, mostly good decent people, some bad or some cantankerous bitches, who now through time have softened and become comedic in my mind. I remember the boxwood hedge that surrounded the property, which started from cuttings my great-grandfather took from a previous property prior to their relocation from northern New Jersey to the "shore house" they had built for their retiring years. 

I remember the rhubarb and mint that grew wild in the side yard. I remember the sunshine, smell of the ocean breeze, and the gingersnaps my great-aunt would make (and give as gifts, tucked inside repurposed graham cracker boxes). 

I remember nana's ability as a seamstress, making new slip covers for everything that dared to stand still in her presence. 

I remember the smell of the fir wood lathing in her attic on a hot summer day, and the browned sugar on top of grapefruit halves, she'd carefully section out for us for breakfasts when we'd visit her on weekends or holidays. 

I remember looking out my bedroom window, late at night, and drawing some comfort seeing the light on in her bedroom, knowing she was awake just like I was, and wondering what she did to pass the time until she was able to doze off.

I remember being a very small child on Christmas day, and finding a doll house my dad made that was big enough I could curl up into one of the rooms, he made the furniture, and wall papered the walls with random wall paper from an old, discarded wall paper sample book. I still have the trunk style toybox he made for me, though I've repainted it (and regretted doing so).

None of this involved money or consumerism. Every memory is laced with care and love. Someone thought enough of me to make these things for me. Someone thought enough of me to make these MEMORIES for me. 

I was asked recently, "When was the last time you cried?" My reply was January when my mom was so sick, and looked like she'd die. I did my primal scream then, and have since compartmentalized the possibility that this year could have been her last--and well, so far, it hasn't.

But right now, after typing all this, I'm brought to tears thinking of my nana, and my great-aunts, and my dad, and thinking of happier times, and missing them all. And feeling in my bones that those good feelings are in a holding pattern, as right now, I cannot say I feel those same feels coming back to me from anyone still living.  

So begins the melancholy I feel during the holidays, where I struggle with the yin-yang of wanting to hibernate, act as if these are just any ol' days of the year versus a time that should be truly special and something set aside to enjoy. I'm just reminded of my shortcomings towards my family, and in turn, their shortcomings towards me.  It's a struggle, just to remain in the moment and try to be at peace with it all.