Tacky Memories

This Thursday I had the pleasure of joining my sisters in Christ at the Mennonite Women's Day. It is one day a month where the women from the church get together and produce such glorious creations as quilts and things for the annual Mennonite Relief Sale. I have never been known for my sewing abilities, so entering the quilting room was like Indiana Jones going into the big cave after the treasure. It was unknown. It was scary. I was almost afraid I'd be chased by a large granite ball if I dared to touch the fabric. Would an alarm sound? Would lights flicker?

One of the ladies was kind enough to find me a beadwork project to work on (although it involved pins which offered its own set of dangers). She was convinced this was something I could handle even with my Methodist upbringing and Mennonite deficiency. I was to create this beaded, wire tree thingy that you stuffed full of Christmas lights. The finished product that I had as an example was lovely, but I wasn't sure I could reproduce it. I wasn't sure I wanted to.

As I flipped though the book of craft recipes that the woman had, I had a nostalgic walk through time as I pictured these beaded, crocheted, woven masterpieces in my grandmother's house. I know she owned every Barbie Doll toilet paper cozy (in colors to match the bathroom decor), macrame plant hangers, hook rug wall hangings (complete with a clock face that wouldn't work because the hands got caught in the pile of the yarn!) and handpainted lawn ornaments that ranged from whimsical frogs and ducks to sturdy Mexican men holding a donkey and cart....that you could plant actual flowers in! Oh- and I could never forget the kissing Dutch children with their hands behind their backs and their little wooden shoes. I loved those things. They WERE Grandma's house.

Here I was, 20 years later, having the opportunity to make my mark on the world by producing...FOR SALE...similar heirlooms that would be handed down to a reluctant generation. I was there for the fellowship. I was there for the camaraderie. But mostly, I was there to make my mark. What my hands produced would be burned into the mind of a youngster, and it would forever be associated with the holiday meals around a large wooden table. This Christmas tree would help a middle aged man smell the scent of pine from the real tree his Grandparents cut down themselves and let the grandkids decorate. This work of art would affectionately adorn the mantle of an old couple whose own grandchildren now sought their attentions.

Now, whenever I see that weathered Barbie doll with the ridiculously large skirt, I think of my Grandma Boeke and the love I found under her roof. When I pass those yellowed items at the flea market, I am transported to a different time and place, when my life was simpler and despite my youthful insecurities, I knew I was loved. I'm going to finish that beaded Christmas tree! I might even make two!