I’m thinking about my Aunt Eleanor today. She passed away peacefully last week, the last of her family and one of the last last links to my mother’s world that my brother and I grew up in. We were blessed with a rich tapestry of aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins, and like most children we thought it would last forever.
Sometimes the world can tear gaping holes in that tapestry. Like many times in history, right now the fabric of thousands of lives is being consumed by the fires of war. But for most people it unravels slowly, gradually. It frays around the edges like an “Irish pennant,” or disappears stealthily like lint in the dryer. Sometimes you don’t even notice how threadbare the blanket has become until years later when you try to pull it close for comfort and it just doesn’t keep out the cold.
The grandparents are usually the first threads to go, and then one by one each strand surrenders to time until your own thread is at the edge of the cloth. If you are so blessed, by the time you feel your own thread has begun to weaken, some artistic weaving has been accomplished and that fabric of family and extended family has been renewed or patched. There are children, grandchildren and kin, lifelong companions and new friends to help keep out the cold. A patchwork quilt will keep you just as warm as whole cloth.
Eleanor was a weaver, a quilter, like my father and like that generation in general, and she was as welcoming of strangers as her own kindred. She visited family and friends, made phone calls, wrote cards and letters, shared the news of the family and reminded us we were all part of a clan. She and Uncle Lamar would stop by sometimes unannounced, always bearing gifts, a basket of tomatoes from the farmers market or a tub of world famous Sprayberry’s barbecue.
One of the things Tracey misses most about living in our beautiful but remote valley is people dropping by for a visit. It was a common occurrence as a child at the homes of all my grandparents. Granny Cordie always had sweetbread and something cold to drink, and visitors were not allowed to leave without accepting some kind of nourishment. Granny Nora always had sweet tea in the refrigerator and the shade of the giant oak on a hot summer day. Drop-ins were encouraged, never intrusions. There was no need for preparations or panic. What you saw was what you got.
I miss that time of front porch rocking chairs, neighbors and family members who would stop by for a bit. We’ve hardly a relative left within an hour’s drive, and more recent generations weave a different type of fabric, more like a tarp, really, or an emergency blanket. Call before you come. Text before you call.
Outside The Box 