My grandmother on my dad's side was the only grandparent I had some interaction with. My mom's parents passed away well before I was born. My dad's dad wasn't apart of our lives. I met him once before he died. It wasn't a happy exchange.
My grandmother was a French Canadian Catholic who, even at the age of 97, could tell us the details of nearly every garment she ever sewed in the early days when she worked in a garment factory in Montreal. At least, that's what my aunt, who took care of her, told me. I had very few conversations with my grandmother myself. Apparently though, her mind was sharp until the end. I do know from having visited her close to the end of her life that she went blind and was confined to a wheelchair. I remember she smiled upon hearing my dad's voice when we came into her room. And, I remember, she held my hand. It was warm, thin, and soft to the touch.
I don't remember a lot about my interactions with her from when I was child. I didn't have many. We used to go to Quebec once every couple of years to visit with her and my dad's family, who were all primarily french speaking people. My mom and I only spoke English. My aunt would translate for us. I do remember that my grandmother used to hide her statue of the Virgin Mary under her bed when she was angry with her for not answering her prayers. Although I didn't know my grandmother well, I had heard many stories over the years. She wasn't a saint herself, which made this retaliation of hers seem comical to me, even at that early age.
Remarkably, she lived her entire 99 years having never learned to read or write. She did, however, sign her name to every card my Aunt Barbara picked out for her to send to me, which were few and far between, but still happily received. She had six children, four of whom she sadly outlived. As far as I have found through my own research online, she was one of five children herself.
None of these details relate directly back to this finishing needle. However, it seems to me, most items of sentiment are a tangled mix of memories.
One summer she came and stayed with us for about a week. I was around ten years old. It was the first and only time she visited us. She didn't enjoy herself. She very much missed her own home. She wasn't a traveler. She wasn't even willing to leave our house for the duration of her stay. To keep herself busy, she crocheted slippers. In that week that she stayed with us, she crocheted at least four pairs. Two pairs were for me. I remember sliding through the kitchen on mine. They were snug, brightly coloured, and sweat inducing. I loved them. I didn't wear them often, but I loved that she had made them for me.
Quite a few years later, when I was an adult, my parents and I visited my dad's family in Joliette, Quebec. I think it was the last time I saw my grandmother. My Aunt Barbara, my dad's sister, the aunt who looked after my grandmother, asked me to put out my hand. In my palm she placed this needle. She simply told me that my grandmother wanted me to have it. It's not made of any special material. It is clearly well used. Still, and perhaps because of these truths, it was and is a treasure to me.
It's a hard thing to keep track of. I use it myself, on the rare occasion I knit or crochet. I don't want to lose it. I'm not good at remembering where I put things, so I keep it out in the open. Right now, it has a home above the fireplace in our living room. I've placed it to one side of the mantle, tucked near a piece of art, not under it so it won't be hidden, yet safe from being accidentally knocked off. There's a method to my madness. Often a story behind it too.
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