Dust (Err...Feathers) In the Wind

It was a day with plenty of time, but small motivation.  Both the Trucker and his erstwhile Passenger were in low gear.

The DS#2 called.  Classes were finished for the day, his home bound students left with their assignments.  Might we have a project or three he could do, rather than sit alone at home?

We did.

First on the list, carry two blanket chests from the dim and cramped attic to an empty bedroom.  Much better space and lighting to sort, and hopefully downsize.

That evening, after the Honey Do list was complete and the Trucker stretched out on the sofa engrossed in online communication with fellow truckers, a trip downstairs to explore the chests. 

Baby clothing and blankets, little girl dresses, and more.  Most dating to the 1960's, lovingly sewn by the Passenger's mother.  Used for two generations of daughters.  Smoothed, folded neatly, and packed away again in the cedar depths, along with their attending memories.

The Trucker turned up, or down, as the case may be, in time to assist in the exploration of the second chest.  Here were a few wedding gifts, as yet unused.  Not because of any lack in quality or appreciation, but the colors were definitely 1980's.  And not the green, brown and golds favored in the Passenger's kitchen.

And then, rugs, woven by Great Grandmother.  Below those, two feather pillows.  Given by Grandma, when we were setting up housekeeping in 1992.  Made by her mother, she said.  The same Great Grandmother who had woven the rugs.  From her own blanket chest.  She had seldom used them, she said. 

We both loved history, and at least one of us had a sentimental tendency.  Those pillows were encased in new eyelet coverings, and provided comfort for several years.  Quite heavy they were, as pillows go, and I loved burying my nose in them.  No description comes to mind for the scent, maybe it just simply tapped into long ago memories.

About the time our DS#1 was beginning to crawl, those feathers began to escape the heavy sacking in which they were stuffed.  And baby found them.  The pillows were retired to the blanket chest.  By now, quite likely the same chest they originally came from.

Tonight the decision was made.  I didn't even want to think about the interior condition of those pillows, or the potential for asthmatic consequences.

As dusk crept over lawn and garden, those pillows went to the back porch, and with a seam ripper, I began to loosen the hand stitched edges.  A few feathers drifted free, and then...

There was a second pillow inside the first!  Even heavier fabric, hand stitched with thicker thread.

Down to the garden we went, those pillows and I.  Upended and shaken, the outer pillows gave birth to a cloud of small downy feathers, and each produced their inner pillow.

Back up to the well lit porch, and the seam ripper was employed again.  In my clumsiness, the now fragile-with-the-years fabric acquired a few small rips.

Upended and shaken again, the inner pillows released clouds of feathers.  Brown, black, white, and every shade imaginable of those colors.  Tiny feathers, silky.  I wondered how many fowl sacrificed their fluffy underwear to the cause?  Amazing how much weight they had, all together.  Coughing and sneezing and grateful for the evening breeze, I flapped those four pieces of fabric repeatedly, as clouds of feathery dust puffed out of them.  Sentiment gave way to sanitary as I watched history blow away.

Dust of the ages.  This stretches my mind.  If Great Grandmother stitched these pillows, it would only be logical that they would have been emptied and re-feathered on occasion.

But...the inner pillows?  Who made them?  HER mother?  Grandma was born in 1910.  Great Grandmother in 1889.  Great, Great Grandmother, in 1845.  How vintage WERE those feathers?  Grandma had seldom used the pillows.  But someone did!

God is the only one who knows.  If He counts every hair on our heads, surely he tallies every feather on a fowl.  And now I wonder, how many local nests will be lined this spring with vintage softness of indeterminate age?  

What a gift I've been given.  One of the very many.  Longing to chat with Grandma again, and ask her about the pillows' history, I dropped all four cases into the washer, gentle cycle, warm water.  Likely the first of several washings.

Now, I need a shower.  Dust of the ages, dust in the wind, dust in my throat, dust on me.  And feathers.  What an interesting twist this day has taken!

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In the early morning light, I once again stepped onto the back porch.  Little birds in great number were hopping daintily round the garden corner, gathering beaks full of dewy feathers.  Robins, sparrows of every description.  Meadowlarks.  On the perimeter waited timid bluebirds.

A sparrow took wing toward her nest in the nearby tree, another fluttering round her, scolding and attempting to steal her collection.  Did she not know there were literally millions more available?  And did the fowl frenzy realize how historic their bedding really was?

Alas, a photo of the gathering proved impossible.  My intrusion provoked a mass exodus of twittering gatherers.

But they returned when I departed.  News spread, and the gathering continued.  Each feather scrutinized carefully from all angles before being selected.  How they can pick up a feather without losing the previous from their beaks is a mystery.  

Now to the laundry.  The pillow fabric needs a third washing.  The laundry floor must be swept.  Day has begun again.