Thanks, Dad, for teaching me to love art, put family first, get tough when the going does the same, and to always believe in my dreams.
I can’t remember where this was taken, but it’s probably about 15 years old and one of my favorites of my Dad and me together. (And I think I made that dress I am wearing).
This may become a regular feature. Prized possessions will be either sentimental in value, handmade, both or neither.
Today I give you one of my most prized possessions; a quilt we call around here “Big Beulah.” I should say first that I don’t love this name. It’s somewhat oafish, rather than elegant as I remember my grandmother, who made it. But the blanket itself is not elegant and it is huge, thus its moniker has stuck. Big Beulah has been with my family for about 5 years now. When my grandpa passed away in January of 2005, my family had to clear out his house and each of us kept a few items that spoke to us. I was surprised to be the only one who wanted this quilt. Maybe it seemed beyond resuscitation to most, but after a few cycles in the wash it freshened right up. My grandmother was a practical and industrious woman and so the quilt was made with scraps from her many polyester pantsuits (although my guess is that she did think this quilt was also beautiful). The backing is super soft toothpaste-green flannel. To my amazement, the only deterioration on the whole thing is a shredded corner, shown below.
Big Beulah has been such a faithful companion to us (and our friends) during picnics, for fort-building, general lazing about and protection from the cold on night-time outings. It’s also perfect for snuggling under while watching a movie or taking a nap. One of my favorite things about having this quilt in our home is seeing how many little people can gather under it at once—an image which would certainly please and “tickle” Beulah herself.
Last month when my parents were here visiting, my mom and I decided it was time to rescue my old doll collection from the cedar chest. These aren’t just any dolls. These dolls were handmade by my mom for me every Christmas when I was a little girl. We both looked forward to introducing them to Lauren, and hoped she would be excited. We must have tipped our hand because she showed no signs of being impressed.
Undeterred, we proceeded to strip and wash them and all their clothing. My mom took such care ironing and mending each dress and pinafore, re-braiding—and in some cases, re-attaching—hair, and re-dressing each one, bloomers, slips and all.
It felt good to be among these old friends again, fresh and clean, ready to start a new phase of life. It also felt good to see my girl sneaking into the chair with them and, when she thought no one was looking, introducing them to her other dolls.
