Hand-Me-Downs or Inheritance?

It was short-lived.

Like Summer, my nice clean, relaxing Three Season Room was gone too soon after it came.

I cannot complain, though, either about Summer coming to a close or the room getting filled up.  First of all, I'm a big Fall person.  Fairs, and apples, and pumpkins, and mums, and changing leaves, and sweater weather, and crisp air, and that Most Delicious of all Sam Adams brews: Octoberfest.  We New Englanders sure know how to do Fall.

And the room, well, it's full, yes.  But so's my heart.

I told you that I inherited my Grandma's rigid heddle weaving loom. 

[This loom, she needs a name.  Hmm.  I'll have to think on that. Yes, it's a she.]  

I've been fortunate enough to come into a lot of inheritance lately - not monetarily, but things.  And ... purpose.

There are people who would consider most of my newly acquired things "Hand-Me-Downs".  I'm not sure I like that.  There's a negative connotation with "Hand-Me-Downs".  I used to wear my sisters' "Hand-Me-Downs" which usually meant clothes that were slightly out of date and too short (I'm tall in my family).  So that term is sort of uncomfortable and itchy to me.  I like the word "Inheritance" because there's an air of formality and responsibility about it; something of value being passed down for a new generation to steward.

And dear readers, in the past few weeks I've gained a growing sense that it's time for me to pick up where those that came before me left off.

I won't go into the heavy emotion of the situation, but this past weekend I helped my aunts and uncles and parents and cousins sort through my Grandparents' house.

I'm going to pause for a moment and tell you a little about my Grandparents' house.

Photos of photos aren't wonderful, I know.

But there it is, Grampa and Gramma's house.  It was built rather recently - my Grampa (and father, and uncles) built it to look old and colonial.  It's not their only home - not even the family home where my Dad grew up - but it's the only place I remember Grampa and Gramma living.  To me, that house is them.  

...

I used to play in the yard with my sisters and cousins - Cops and Robbers - and pump water out of that old-fashioned pump out front.  

...

There used to be a huge tree in the backyard, with a positively ginormous wooden swing hanging from a big limb, and I can just barely remember Grampa pushing us - more than one at a time? was the swing THAT big?  

...

And further back, in the woods, there are maybe three or four wild blueberry bushes.  When we'd come up to visit in July, Gramma would send us down to pick blueberries, wearing a small metal bucket on a long string like a necklace.  Wild blueberries are the  teeny-tiniest blueberries you'll ever see, but they're so very sweet and flavorful.

...

And Grampa would cook up these wonderful thin crepes for breakfast, and stew the blueberries up into a sauce in a pan to the side, and he served them on special metal plates that he'd heated up so the crepes stayed warm while you were eating them.  Not that they really lasted long enough to get cold anyway - they were delicious.

...

Sigh.

And here's a photo of my Grampa, when he was young:

Wasn't he dashing?

But ... I digress.

This desk, now my desk, was made for my Grandma by my Grandpa ... I don't know how long ago, but my dad told me that he remembers helping Grandpa with it, and I assume he meant he was young.

When I was asked what, if anything, I'd like from Gramma and Grampa's house, even before I thought of the loom, it was Gramma's desk that came to mind.  It's not something they purchased because they liked it.  It's not an impersonal antique.  It's one-of-a-kind.  It's a symbol of their love and commitment.

I didn't know my Gramma well - that side of the family isn't exactly a talkative bunch - but I'm learning that I am a lot like her.  Not only in our knitting, but our tastes, habits ... 

I helped my Aunt Nancy sort through Gramma's stash of yarn, needles, books, and supplies this weekend, and I had the overwhelming sense that it was exactly what my own would look like in 50 years.  The WIPs, sitting on the needles for who-knows-how-long.  The baskets and bins with this-and-that tucked away ... swatches, bobbins of leftover yarn, patterns copied by hand on the backs of scratch paper ... 

Then there was the task of cleaning out the desk: photos mixed in with kid-drawings and little prayer/devotional books and greeting cards and newspaper clippings and the top-left corners torn from envelopes to get the addresses (I do that, too) ...

Having such an intimate look into Gramma's life, sorting through the things shut up in drawers or behind a cupboard door, made me realize that all those years I felt different from her, like a black sheep because our family moved away from the rest, because we were Yankee fans among Red Sox Nation, because we saw each other every few months instead of daily or weekly like my cousins saw her ... none of that mattered.  We were kindred spirits.  We could have been very good friends, Gramma and I.

But without further ado, I give you: My Inheritance:

Yarn.  Oh, there was yarn.  This isn't the half of it - my Grandma had a stash to rival all stashes.  Unfortunately, most of the yarn couldn't be saved.  It had sat for too long locked up in a crawl-space and was just too musty.  I took mental notes to put more effort into preserving and properly storing my stash.

What could be in this odd little container?  (see the hole at the top?  Yep, it's a yarn holder.  Ancient.  Who knew this style of keeping yarn was as old as time?)

However, there's no yarn inside:

Knitting needles!  A cache of knitting needles!  All sizes!  Long, short, DPN's, circulars, and not just needles but crochet hooks, Tunisian crochet hooks, tatting hooks ... I won't need to buy another set of needles or a single hook the rest of my life!  

(Don't tell Mr. Pi I said that)

Can you guess what's in this fun box?  I mean, besides the darning egg on top, and MOAR YARNs.

A bag of granny squares (a little cliche, yes, but Gramma was nothing if not authentic):

I'm not going to lie - the thought of completing this afghan for my family gives me a little thrill.

And the discovery of the day, the hidden treasure:

Heddles, in three different sizes, for the loom!

Let's see ... we've also got ... pattern books: 

This is a very, very small pile, compared to Gramma's collection.  She had three-decades'-worth of issues of The Workbasket, but I just couldn't justify taking them home.  It was heart-wrenching.  I couldn't spend all day sorting and deciding, either.  I had to pick the books or patterns that spoke to me at-a-glance and move on.  

Sigh.

But what could be in that little ancient pouch, all tied up?  

MORE needles and hooks!

I also got some pillow forms (sort of afraid I won't be able to salvage them - they've got that musty smell).  

And then there was a big tupperware bin:

Looks unassuming, but ... lo and behold ... 

YARN.  I'm guessing this was the weaving stash, judging by the fact that the yarn is on spools ... and there are the shuttles ... oh, and this:

A weaving book, which I am SO uber-excited about!

So these are my treasures.  I'm a lucky girl, I'm a very lucky girl.  For one, I am one of two knitters in the family, so I got nearly all of Gramma's knitting supplies uncontested, save a few sizes of needles that Aunt Nancy needed.

But more than that ... much, much more than that ... I discovered this incredibly special connection that Gramma and I share.  When I visit her, she may not recognize me, and she may not be able to tell me stories about the past, but what matters is that she lived it, and in a small way ... I feel like I'm bringing it forward into the future.

Mrs. Pi