Generation Lost

I just spent a week down at my grandmother's home, with my aunt, going through photos, glassware and grandmother's hope chest. So many memories, so many giggle moments like when we pulled out the knitted suit Grandmother had made for herself. It was pink, not pale, more rich without being fuchsia. It was the only article of clothing I'd ever seen her make that added 20 lbs to you when you wore it, and it was heavy!

Grandmother (2nd from right) and Granddad
(far right) with their friends the Hoots.

That moment and many others this past week reminded me how much is lost from my grandparents generation.

Both sets of my grandparents came from poor families, during the depression. My grandfather Watson was kicked out of his home at age 11, when his mom remarried. He lived from family to friend, picking up jobs here and there. My grandmother Watson was the daughter in a family of 6 total, where her father was a conductor on a train and her mom had had polio and got around with the help of some crutches (that she used into her 80s, as she stood by the sink washing dishes at my grandmother's home). My granddad Watson ended working at Guide Lamp, and was involved in one of the first official sit down strikes when unions were formed. My grandmother worked as a cook in the elementary school kitchen and again, active in her church and gave more to others than she ever expected back. Both so hard working, and loving people.

But the memories this past week were inspired through my Beanblossom side of the family.

Granddad in the marines.

I remember the stories from my grandfather about hunting for anything to eat, including squirrels, rabbits, whatever they could find. I saw the land his father and he farmed, with a plow and a horse. It was rolling hills, tough soil, not an easy childhood. My grandmother was one of 8, and the oldest girl of 6. In household where a piece of gristle (a gelatatinous fatty piece of meat) was found on a window sill after dinner, and the children where hit with a switch til someone confessed for the waste. My Aunt Ruth never owned up til much later in life.

But they both moved past their lot in life. They both became teachers, with my Grandfather becoming a principal and then superintendent of schools. At my grandfather's funeral, well over 300 hundred visitors came through at his viewing, most having had him as a teacher or principal, speaking about how he was tough but fair, and how he would be missed. Grandmother passed much later, in her 90s, but the students still came out and spoke of how they loved her and how much they had learned.

But I digress... back to their being teachers. It meant that summers were their down time, and time was filled with everything from personal projects, to traveling with their girls, to visiting friends, to church projects, to their small patch of garden that was mindfully attended.

My grandfather enjoyed his woodworking, and in retirement, his stain glass pieces he made. My grandmother sewed, crocheted, knitted, created pottery pieces and other crafty projects that resulted large quilts for our family or Christmas themed clothing during that season. And when I visited them in Phoenix, there was always a huge puzzle started that we all worked on while we talked.

They both took extreme pride in their work, and it was always done with love and near perfection.

I can't count the times during the week I heard Sue (my aunt) refer to my grandfather's pieces when people commented on the beautiful work, or gorgeous wood, or misinterpreted the piece as antique when it was his reproduction of an antique piece. Or the times that we said, "well, grand(mother) actually made that," or "that's not for sale, we can't let that leave the family."

A quilt made for Sue.

All of this resulted in my awareness of what their generation actually "did" to generate the things they owned or had in the house. They passed some of these down to their two girls. Sue does a beautiful job with stain glass and sewed her dress for my wedding. My mom begrudgingly sewed when she had to hem pants or fix a hole, but encouraged me to learn crocheting and knitting from grandmother. My endeavors resulted in a plethora of scarves and potholders.

It just hit me in the face that all those skills, all that self-sufficiency is being lost. I've tried being crafty, which has resulted in some successes and equal failures, but never could rival my grandparents.

My grandfather actually built a house they lived in. He build another house for others to live in. He put an addition on their house. We found clothing my grandmother had made for my mom and aunt, when they were little. We uncovered a numerous treasures they created together and separately. It humbles me in my apathetic tact I often take in a day.

Necessity is the mother of invention, well, it's also the mother of adapting and survival. It takes idle hands and denies the devil.

You'll notice the multipiece puzzle on the table!

Tonight I sit here, at my computer, playing a game or two of Candy Crush while replying to work emails and making a list for shopping this weekend. I could be sanding the drywall mud in our newly walled storage space. I could be repainting the upstairs bathroom after my poor job the first time. I could be working with Alex on his writing skills and comfort level. I could pull out my jewelry making tools and make 4 or 5 pairs of earrings for future gifts. I could be doing any number of things that would be much more creative and much more satisfying, but I don't.

This past week was a reminder, a reminder of all those visits with them, all those projects I "helped" with as a child, all those moments talking and laughing and learning. It was a reminder of how much we can lose, if we don't pay attention and if we don't listen.