Handmade

Are We There Yet?

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WorldsFair

One of the ironies of our life is that our resident social butterfly, six-year-old Thing2, needs an enormous amount prodding to get in the car for any weekend outing.  And so it began on Sunday morning.  

Freshly exercised and showered, and ready for our weekly breakfast at Bob’s diner in Manchester, the Big Guy, thirteen-year-old Jack, and I had one more hurdle to leap before we began our Sunday adventure – convincing – rather, ordering – Thing2 to get in the car.  Pouting and mumbling about his desire to stay put and eat the sugar cereal du jour, Thing2 finally shuffled to his booster seat and got his seat belt on.  Anyone watching would have thought we were taking him to look at military schools (the idea did cross our minds).    Instead, he was pulled out of his cocoon.  

Something about the smell of bacon and coffee temporarily banished Thing2’s grumpiness.  But when breakfast was behind us and we hit the road again, the ride took on a different character for all of us. 

The Worlds Fair in Tunbridge – our destination – is  about 90 minutes from Manchester, and Thing2 kicked off the first half hour mumbling a litany of things he’d rather be doing.  We had mentioned the word ‘fair’ a number of times before, but I had made the mistake of telling the kids it was historical, and the only part of the day Thing2 could focus on was the driving.  Finally, the Big Guy and I caught Thing2’s eye and ears to make it clear that the rest of the ride did not need a serenade of complaints.  He adjusted his tone.  The last sixty minutes were mostly quiet, punctuated only by the occasional refrain of  ‘Are we there yet?’

When we reached the muddy parking lot at the fair ground, Thing2 had zoned out, but the bump between road and muck got his attention.  The smell of manure permeated the air.  Well-groomed, uniformed students from the nearby military college cheerfully directed us to a parking space.  There were no formal ticket booths – just a few more college kids (who didn’t look old enough to shave, let alone wear uniforms) taking admission and shepherding patrons through twine-lined ‘gates’.  

Thing2 clung to my hand, then the Big Guy’s, then mine.  He had already spotted the typical fair midway.  We headed up a muddy hill away from the typical and toward the heart of the fair.  

The heart of the fair is a permanent collection of old buildings – long log cabins, a metal foundry, a carriage barn.  The first log cabin contained artifacts of Vermont home life from over the last two centuries.  Period-costumed demonstrators brought the display – and Thing2 – to life as they showed us how quilts were (and are) made or how country stores used to operate.  The second building displayed a collection of tools, and the carriage barn contain, naturally, carefully preserved carriages and wagons once used by local farmers.  But, while the quilting demonstration and old-fashioned donuts had sparked the beginning of a sincere attitude adjustment in Thing2, what was outside perked up his wings, long before we got to the midway.

Alongside the carriage barn stood pop-up tents that, instead of the usual fair t-shirts and novelty souvenirs, sheltered antique engines.  All of the engines were running, producing little pops when air bubbles went through them.  A few of the displays encouraged visitors to try their hand at grinding corn, or winding thread or pumping water the old-fashioned way.  The whirring motors and spinning gears made their own music, and Thing2 began his dance.  

The rest of the afternoon we shuttled between rides and exhibits.  We stopped for maple-flavored cotton candy (it is Vermont after all) and ‘pour-your-own’ freshly-pressed cider, and Thing2 continued dancing until long after the Big Guy and I had exhausted our reserves.  The dancing and accompanying chatter continued until we were back in the car, rolling through the muddy field again.  

“We have to do this again,” said Jack before he nodded off.  The fair was still causing Thing2’s wings to flutter, however, and it was a long time before he slept.  The excitement of seeing something different would keep them moving even when he did close his eyes, and when I heard him singing softly to himself in his sleep, I knew we were there yet.

Made Especially for You

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The year I turned nine and my sister turned seven, my parents invited my mother’s entire extended family to our house for Christmas.  They planned it well in advance, and my mother decided that my sister and I should use the time to make stockings for everyone for Christmas.  With Mom’s gentle, insistent guidance we cut out, decorated and hand stitched seventeen red felt stockings – each with the name of an aunt or uncle and one for Grandma and Grandpa.  We didn’t know it at the time, but she wasn’t just teaching us to sew.  She was teaching us about giving.

The family didn’t hold back on their praise of our work, but Grandma had outdone us, as we knew she would.  Her Christmas creations were legendary.  One year she had made life-sized stuffed dolls with snaps on the hands and toes that we could use to create all sorts of crazy shapes.  Another year she sent cross stitch pictures to celebrate us getting our own rooms.  And on each creation she would sew a label that sad ‘Made Especially for You by KVK’.

This Christmas she brought two large crochet afghans big enough to cover a full-size bed.  Each blanket was made using our favorite color, and they quickly became our favorite wrap for watching TV or snuggling under the covers.  The afghans also sparked my curiosity about how they were made.  Grandma tried to get us started on crocheting that Christmas, but it took a few more years before either of our fingers were dextrous enough to let the lessons sink in.

It was only when our Grandparents moved to the same city as our parents that I discovered how much my Grandmother’s enjoyed creating these treasures – many of which I still have.  My mother was (and still is) an expert seamstress and had made many of our clothes growing up, and, while both my sister and I did learn to sew (my sister’s expertise is pretty close to my mom’s), I loved the needlework.

For years I kept at least one project going, occasionally finishing one here and there, but my needlework projects were mostly fits of inspiration born of a visit to Grandma or Germany, where most girls still learned to knit at the time.  But it wasn’t until just recently that the lesson my mom started teaching us all those years ago really sunk in.

We had recently moved to Vermont, and I had fallen in with a couple of quilters at my new job.  My new employer was constantly offloading small samples of fabric from discarded product lines, and like a moth to a flame, I made sure nothing went to waste (Quilt fabric is officially more addicting than alcohol and nicotine combined).  My first idea was to make a quilt for The Big Guy.  I cut and pieced and cut and quickly realized I had bit off a little more than I could chew.  That project still awaits completion, but I did manage to finish another quilt that had developed simultaneously.

Soon after my quilting addiction began, my mother was made president of the Ohio Academy of HIstory.  The news came shortly before her birthday, and I decided to make her an Ohio star quilt.  I gave it to her when we were all on vacation together, and it was the first time in my life I had made something like that for my mother (not counting Kindergarten clay ashtrays for a woman who never smoked), and when she cried, I began to understand what it meant to really give something of oneself.

We still buy presents for each other, but since then I’ve made a monster scarf for The Big Guy,  hunting-colored scarves for the kids, and an afghan for Thing2 (Thing1’s specifications are still being sorted out).  And when I finally get that first quilt spread out on The Big Guy’s side of the bed, it won’t have a label on it, but we will both know that it was made especially for him and no one else.