The Legacy

I come from a long line of fiber crafts females.

My paternal grandmother was a big afghan crochet artist. To my knowledge, she only made them for family, and they all follow the same basic pattern. Memories of huge piles of fugly Red Heart acrylic yarn and my Grandmama sitting in her recliner crocheting while watching Lawrence Welk or Hee Haw are a small part of my childhood fiber memories. At one point, I asked Grandmama to teach me, and she somewhat did. I could make a single crochet like no one's business, and if there were a need for said creation, I could have made a fortune. Ask me to actually crochet through the loops and MAKE something? Abysmal. It didn't take long for me to tire of the failure, and all I have of this part of my childhood are a couple of the afghans and a lone picture of me crocheting on the sofa at Grandmama's house. And the hair? It was Beauty Parlor day, and I got to tag along. I'll spare you the details.

The multi-colored afghan was given to me, personally. It's smaller, but much loved. You can see where some poorly constructed surgery was performed as the yarn gave and started to unravel. This piece of history stays in a Rubbermaid container these days. I can't bring myself to actually use or display it. Things 1 and 2 would have it in a pile of recycled yarn in 4.269 seconds flat.

The brown afghan is more in keeping with what I remember her working on. I have this one as well, but I'm not sure who its intended recipient was. It is in much better shape than the multi, but also spends most of its time in the Rubbermaid.

On the maternal side of my family, the family myths and legends abound. I distinctly remember stories of one of my great-grandmothers crocheting (or knitting) through The Depression. The story goes that she would knit table runners and doilies from string saved from wrapped meats from the local butcher. At this point, it's all hearsay, and there is no one still living to validate it. I do have something from this era though, whether by accident or design. The Mother (that would be mine) has some of this family fiber history, and I have this:

I thought, for a time, that it might be part of the family history, but I'm not so sure any longer. Better knowledge of the construction of fiber crafts as well as the sewn on fringe on this piece lead me to believe that this may be a hand made item, but not of the era I'm thinking. I'll have to confer with The Mother on this at some point.

The Mother, while never learning to crochet or knit, is an accomplished crossstitcher. I have some of her things in my home, and every time she visits, she tells me how poorly they look and I need to have them re-blocked. Never mind. Another topic for another post.

Which brings me to The Legacy. Granny (The Mother's mother) is a crocheter and tatter from WAY back. I don't know that I ever watched her create anything, but there was always something lying around half completed in a mirage of colors. I remember, during the Avocado appliance era (I know...I'm dating myself here), delicate tatting in shades of mint and lemon not found in nature. The Mother probably has some of this as well. I should ask.

Granny, however, is definitely her own person. I could fill this blog with the various stories that include Granny that have nothing to do with fiber. Dr. Lucy's favorite story is Granny arriving at my Bridesmaid luncheon, nearly parking the front of her Toyota in an old pine, Old Fashioned glass filled to the brim on the dash and not spilling a drop. It's Dr. Lucy's favorite because she witnessed it. I couldn't make this stuff up. Granny also worked crossword puzzles in ink. My departed Grandfather used to refer to it as 'the height of conceit'. I could go on, but I think you've probably clued in at this point. Granny does things her way and isn't exactly what I would refer to as maternal or interested in family heritage. Unfortunately, time and arthritis have take away Granny's ability to hold a crochet needle. And, Granny has no interest in passing on the knowledge or doing much of anything these days. Of course, she's older than Iraq (I"m not kidding...check the dates. And we want a sovereign, democratic Iraq?) and has somewhat earned the right to sit in a wheelchair and soil herself in a fit a pique (can't make that one up either).

So, Enter The Legacy. The Legacy is a afghan composed of crocheted granny squares (Hah! I couldn't invent a pun that ironic!) loosely stitched together. I had thought, when The Mother bestowed The Legacy upon me, that it was an incomplete afghan. My original understanding was the afghan needed to be completed. I was a bit intimidated by the whole thing, so The Legacy stayed in its plastic zippered bag that once contained The Mother's Croscill sheets while I worked up the courage determined a potential plan of completion.

Today was the day for the unbagging. I was wrong, oh so wrong, about the needs of The Legacy. It's coming apart, it's filthy, I don't know how to crochet, and it's been given to me.

My initial instinct is to take the thing apart, square by square, and wash the squares carefully. Some of them have 'stuff' on them. (Granny isn't known for her housekeeping abilities) 'Stuff' of a color and consistancy I haven't witnessed since my children were eating strained peas at the table of Gerber. 'Stuff' I couldn't, in good conscience, post a picture of on this page. And, if that were all there were to this, I'd do it. I'd take it apart, hand wash the squares, and stitch it back together. But no, it could not be that simple of a project for me.

Some of the squares are beginning to unravel. I have NO idea how to fix this and there is no spare yarn. Matching yarn, at this point, would very likely be impossible. I have no idea how old the yarn is, but it's very likely to be as old, if not older than me (which would be older than...say....Aerosmith).

Here lies my fiber legacy.

And as you pray in your darkness
For wings to set you free
You are bound to your silent legacy

Silent Legacy by Melissa Etheridge