It was 1990. The Trucker and I were newly returned from our voluntary service assignments, and looking toward the future. I was not yet the Passenger.
The Trucker was again headed west on regular runs to the coast. I headed west every morning, a fifteen minute drive to the local insurance office.
On a weekend home, the Trucker expressed interest in another blanket for his bunk. I had minimal experience with this, but a desire to learn. And I had Grandma, who with her scissors, sewing machine, and quilt frames, had thousands of quilts and comforters to her credit.
A romantic scenario formed in my thoughts. Grandma and I shopping for fabric, me choosing just the right colors to match the truck and bunk, she advising on the type and amount. Then, me doing the cutting, stitching, and knotting under her watchful eye. A chat with Grandma assured her willingness to participate in the project.
But alas, the romantic scenario escaped her. Or I didn't explain it clearly. Grandma's practical nature kicked in immediately. Next morning when I stopped by to plan the anticipated shopping trip, quilt frames were set up in her "long room." A flannel comforter was pinned into the frames, half already knotted and rolled at the ends. Grandma was busily stitching and knotting. Cheerfully, she announced that by the time I was home from work that evening, she would have it out of the frame, bound, and ready to head west. And no, I wasn't to pay for any of it!
Oh.
My dreams took an abrupt left turn. The shopping trip plans collapsed, along with the intention of doing the comforter myself, under Grandma's guidance.
Always having plenty of fabric on hand, Grandma had pieced her gift of black plaid flannel backing, with alternating squares of black and bright red for the front. She completed the project by binding the whole thing with maroon strips.
The stitching was beautifully and rapidly accomplished. The fabric, warm and cozy. The colors, all wrong for the truck's interior and for each other, to my way of thinking.
The selfless, loving heart and careworn hands that produced this gift, without compare.
How could I refuse such a gift? I couldn't. Swallowing disappointment, I manufactured a smile, and thanked Grandma. And I was grateful, really. How could I be otherwise?
And when the Trucker came to visit, the colors didn't seem to matter, nor whose hands did the stitching. What mattered was his surprise of having his blanket done so quickly, and how perfectly it fit the bunk. And how warmly it sheltered him through cold nights on the high plains and mountains.
Twenty-eight years have passed. That comforter has kept the Trucker warm through nearly three million miles of travel. The fabric is thin. The seams are ripping out. The watting bunched and disintegrating. Though repaired and redone several times, it's the end of the trail for Grandma's gift.
A new blanket is in progress, this fabric chosen by the Trucker. Though sewn on my newer machine, the patches were cut by Grandma's old scissors. Who knows? They may well have snipped through three million patches in their time.
Grandma's skill and speed are not mine. I cannot even lay claim to the depth of love she shared so freely....yet. In time, but not quite yet.
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