Figment of My Cogitation

One of the gifts of having grandparents is that they provide us living examples of skills and values from another time. I nearly missed this experience since all my biological grandparents had died by the time I was 7 years old. But I was lucky. The grandmother I remember best was Ethel Connors, a woman not related to us who became family in all the ways that matter. She was born July 28, 1896, and our relationship was the strongest connection I had to women of her generation. They don’t make grandmas like her now, ones who know how to do stuff. Modern grandmas buy stuff.

Grandma Connors came of age in the early 1900s, an era when young women learned what now seems a mind-boggling array of domestic skills. She could sew by hand and machine. She crocheted and did tatting, a form of lace-making done with an impossibly small hook. She taught me how to knit, embroider and quilt by hand, always reminding me to make the stitches tiny and straight. When she was a young woman, Grandma Connors said, she’d have sewing contests with her friends to see whose stitches were the smallest. It was best if you couldn’t see them at all.

Table runner I embroidered for Mother's Day, ca. 1970

She could also re-cane chairs; fix a pork roast and gravy that are still unequalled; and every Christmas, she made these cookies using something like a branding iron dipped in batter that was then deep-fried. Grandma Connors was a woman possessing such varied skills, she even knew how to cook the squirrels her husband occasionally brought home — although she never could make them smell like something I’d want to put in my mouth.

My friend Karole’s parents, Bill and Elaine Edwards, also knew how to do stuff. The year after Karole bought her first house, her parents, then in their 70s, spent several days helping her lay two different types of flooring in the kitchen and living areas, installed a dishwasher and new countertops, tiled the bathroom floor, hung wallpaper and put up ceiling fans. (They also painted, but this was one area where they did not shine, eschewing the usual taping and tarping for “we’ll scrape up those drips later.”) Elaine could sew, quilt, and her mashed potatoes were legendary. She’s probably fixing them in heaven these days — really, what kind of heaven would it be if her mashed potatoes weren’t there?

I’m reminiscing about these people because with each passing generation, fewer and fewer of us know how to make things. Doing is not what we care about anymore. Culturally, we measure ourselves not by what we know how to do, but by how much we can buy.

In fact, knowing how to make or fix things has fallen so low, it’s almost an embarrassment to be caught at it. Those of us who sew or cook are throwbacks. When people see us doing these things, they make remarks like, “Well, aren’t you the domestic one?” in a tone that doesn’t sound so complimentary. Why fix what you could replace, or bake what you could purchase ready-made? Why would you turn the collar on a shirt when a new button-down is so cheap at WalMart? Who in the world knows how to darn a woolen sock anymore?

I do.

I can also knit a sweater, cut my husband’s hair, and do a passable job of refinishing a piece of furniture. I bake bread. I can make a rag rug and pull together a respectable vegetarian dinner from some rice, frozen spinach, seasonings, and a little yogurt. When a pair of pants is too “gappy” at the waist, or too long or wide in the legs, I can alter them. I bake my family’s birthday cakes every year, and the adults get one made from scratch, including the frosting.

This can’t be called bragging since none of these skills is held in high regard anymore. It’s like announcing that I know how to repair a wagon wheel or mend the stays in your corset. Quaint, but not much in demand. In order to fit into this century, I should probably get a full-time job so I can earn some money to pay someone else to make, do, or fix stuff for us. But I probably won’t.

One reason is, there is no heart in the sweater you buy at Macy’s. Sorry, but no matter how nice a person you are, the woman who runs the knitting machine in China does not think about you as she works. But if your sister knits a scarf that you later discover is perfect for cold days when you’re riding your Harley, it’s a bonus gift: functional, with a little love added. The same is true for the bread made by the bakery versus the loaf your friend made for your party because she knows how much you like it. One fills your stomach — the other gives you that, plus something extra.

Sometimes the extra comes in the form of a story about working on something together. My daughter knows how to paint like a pro because she has done every room in the house with me over the years. She has plenty of stories about it. If you ask her about the time we painted the TV room, then I hated the color so we re-painted it again the following year, you’ll really get an earful. Last year, daunted by the need to paint the entire house at one time, I had it done professionally. It looked great but left us with no Tahitian Tan in our hair and no tales to tell.

I find something deeply satisfying in being competent at these skills. It keeps me connected to the talented women who shared their knowledge about how to take care of a family and a home, even though they’re gone now. I never sew anything by hand without hearing Grandma Connors’ voice reminding me to make tiny stitches. Every time I bake brownies, I use my mother’s recipe and her wooden spoon and watch the sugar dissolve into the melted chocolate just the way it did when we made them together 40 years ago.

And as I do these things, I hope I’m making some memories for my family as well. Perhaps my daughter will save the doll’s quilt I made for her because she can still feel the love in it, even though she’s all grown up now. My son might sew a button on his shirt and think of how I taught him to do it. And maybe one of these days, my mashed potatoes will be legendary.