It’s been a day

Thursday, October 27, 2022

It’s been a day.

I really don’t want to talk about it. However, the point of this blog is to get my feelings out. So, here it goes.

It’s been a little over a year since my paternal Grandma passed. Not only was she my last grandparent left, she was the one I was the closest to. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my other grandparents. But this Grandma… well, she basically saved my life more than once.

My dad is the middle child of seven. Let’s just say that there’s been drama since my Grandma passed, that really isn’t relevant to the story. My Grandma’s house has always been special to me. It’s the one place on this earth that I have always felt the safest and most loved. So when it was in her will that no one got it and it was to be sold, I was devastated. The house is old. And when I say old, I mean it was built in the late 1800’s. It’s the fourth oldest house in her town. It needs a ton of work. And it sat on the market with no bites.

A few weeks ago, my parents dropped a bombshell on me and told me they bought the house. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy they did. I’m happy that it’s going to stay in the family. I’m happy that, being the only child, it will one day be mine - even though I REALLY don’t want to live in that town. I’m happy that my parents are happy. I know that my dad is going to pour his heart and soul into getting his childhood home back into the condition it deserves to be in.

All that being said, I went over there last night. I haven’t been in the house since before COVID. I have never seen it without the furniture that’s been there since before I was born. I’ve never been in it without the presence of my Grandma. To walk in and see everything gone. The painting my Great Aunt did of San Francisco. Gone. The mallard duck painting my Grandma made. Gone. Her baby grand piano. Gone. All of her prize winning quilts. Gone. The painting of my Aunt when she was Miss County. Gone. The big dining room table my Grandpa made. Gone. It was surreal.

All of that. I could handle. I had prepared myself. I mentally braced myself for it.

What I did NOT brace myself for was her former quilt workshop.

My Grandma was an award winning quilter. Most people who knew her, knew her for her quilting. All of us grandkids (15 of us) got a quilt when we graduated high school. A quilt when we were married. Our children received baby quilts as our baby shower gift from her. She had multiple rooms filled with fabric. She had thousands of books and magazines. She belonged to the Quilt Guild. She had multiple sewing machines. Hundred of quilt tops ready to be made into quilts. She taught me how to quilt. Her quilt workshop was my Grandpa’s woodshop when he was alive. Sadly, he passed away in 1997. After he passed, it became my Grandma’s. It was half of the detached garage.

The second I stepped foot into the garage I COULD SMELL HER. That smell. The smell of home, of love, of safety. The best smell on Earth. I had a hard time keeping it together, but I did. I walked through the garage and through the door to her quilt shop.

I should mention, my Grandma kept everything. EVERYTHING. She was a hoarder. But not like the dirty one’s you’d see on TV. She was organized and kept her full rooms out of visitors’ eyes. She didn’t keep trash. She kept anything that she deemed to be sentimental. Cards. Magazines. Programs. Letters. Notes. Photos. It’s been a year since she passed, and I’m not sure even half of her stuff has been gone through. So, the quilt room was full of stuff. I started to poke around. I was chuckling at all of the ridiculous things she kept. She had Christmas cards that Reader’s Digest sent to subscribers, from the 90’s. And then I saw it.

Every year, my Grandma gave us all ornaments. Her kids, their spouses, the grandkids, then our spouses, and her great-grandkids. Well… I came upon the shelves where she kept her ornaments that she planned on making. She had even written on some of them already.

I lost it.

I asked for a moment and then I balled. I balled like I did the day she passed. I balled like I did at her funeral and burial. It was like, just seeing those ornaments ripped opened stitches on my heart that I though had healed. I’m crying right now as I type this.

It only got worse.

My dad and step-mom came in to try to distract me. Then I found a stack of Christmas cards. Included was the very last Christmas card my Grandpa gave her before he passed. A card that I had sent her that year. The last year I would’ve been able to see my Grandpa, but my bio-mother wouldn’t let me come out to California. I found a book she had called, “How to survive the loss of your husband,” and the bookmarked page with a poem called “SuperWidow.”

I cried on the way home.

I called my oldest cousin, Jennifer. She was a tremendous help and my shoulder to cry (over the phone) on. She is one of the few people who would understand what that room did to my emotions.

So, yes. It was a day.

And these paintings (any my photo) says it all.